


Of Night and Light and the Half-Light

by Mertens



Series: The Cloths of Heaven [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angsty bed sharing because of old timey morals, F/M, Sharing a Bed, i guess this is my life now, imagine learning your fiancé sleeps in a coffin, regret intensifies, supposed to be a one shot but I just kept writing and I don't know what happened, that'd be hella weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-09-21 05:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17037302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Erik decides it's time to show his fiancée where she'll be living after they're married, but Christine takes issue with Erik's sleeping arrangements regarding a certain piece of furniture in his room.(continuation of 'Tread Softly')





	1. Chapter 1

It had been one week - one glorious week since they had gotten engaged. A week of seeing his ring gleaming upon her finger, a week of butterflies in her stomach when he'd kiss her before leaving for the night. 

It was one full week before he decided to bring up the subject of inviting her to dinner. He had decided before their lesson that he would ask her, and the thought of it was making him nervous the entire time. His hands felt sweaty and clammy to the point that he feared his fingers would slip on the keys. He didn't know _why_ he should feel that way - would she really refuse to eat with him when she had already agreed to _marry_ him? But still, no one else had ever been in the little house on the lake underground, and he was anxious to know what she'd think of it. What if she hated it? What if she hated it so much that she realized she also hated _him_? 

But it had to be gotten over with. She was to be his wife, after all, and she needed to know what their home looked like... _Before_ she was forever shackled to the ghost that lived there. Even if he did have plans to eventually move to an actual house in the sun with a garden and grass and every other normal thing - that wouldn't happen right away, and they'd surely have to spend _some_ time underground. 

"Christine," he asked as soon as he stopped playing, knowing he'd lose his nerve if he waited too long. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Christine's face lit up. 

"Of course! Where?"

"In my home... Downstairs."

"Yes, I'd love to. Where should I meet you?"

"In here, just after seven."

Erik left shortly afterwards to begin preparing the food, and Christine made her way down the hallway to her dormitory to wait, wondering what his home would look like. 

Although she felt they knew each other very well in most aspects, there was actually very little she knew about how and where he lived - it had always seemed a terribly rude thing to ask. He had mentioned once that he lived in the cellars of the Opera House, but that was as much as she knew. Was it decorated? Did he have furniture? For a moment she had a horrible vision of a damp, empty cellar where they'd sit on the floor and eat their dinner with their hands off of old chipped plates. She shuddered. She consoled herself with the thought that Erik was seemingly too refined to live in such a manner - after all, he surely had to have _some_ place that he stored all of his fine clothes and accessories. He never looked very dusty, either, so surely he didn't sit on the ground very much... Hopefully. She would find out that evening either way. 

Christine had the next two days off from performing, and she barely knew what to do with herself in that time. She finally settled for reading a book mixed with absentminded daydreaming in between pages. By the time it was time for her to meet Erik, she hadn't managed to read very far, but she managed to think up several elaborate scenarios of their future together, all of them far too unlikely to occur but still interesting to think about. 

She was full of excited nerves as Erik ushered her through the mirror and into the tunnel behind it. She jumped a little at the sound of the mirror clicking shut, a flash of a feeling of being trapped, but she reminded herself of who she was here with and the feeling passed. 

She was terribly glad of the large lantern he held, and she stayed as close to him as she could. It was silly for someone of her age, she knew, but she couldn't help her ever persistent fear of the dark. Everyone who knew of it had told her she would grow out of it sooner or later, and she had fervently believed that as a child, and then still held on to that hope a little less unwaveringly as a teenager, and then finally given up on the idea once she was well into her twenties and still feared darkness as much as she had when she was small. 

He led her down winding passageways and several sets of stairs, apologizing for the long walk it required. Finally he brought her to the bank of the lake she had heard existed underneath the Opera House. Although it was still very dark, the lake was quite a sight to see. It held an uneasiness to it, a sense of utter wrongness, as though such a thing should not exist, and yet here it was. 

He held the lantern out and she noticed for the first time that there was a gondola in the water. He helped her step across and get settled in the gondola before stepping into it himself, grabbed the pole that was on the bank, and began to move them across the water. 

She looked back at the bank as it disappeared from view, watching it get smaller and smaller until she couldn't see it at all. She looked ahead and saw nothing but the mist that hovered above the surface of the dark waters. At last a light could be seen in the distance, and as they grew closer she saw it was another lantern hung next to a door. The door was attached to, curiously enough, a house. 

If seeing a lake this far under the ground had been unsettling, it was even more unnerving to see a house on the bank of a lake underneath the surface of the earth. The house looked normal enough, and that only added to the odd feeling it had. 

He poled the gondola as close to shore as he could, tying it to a peg in the bricks so it would remain there. He helped her up once again, and then pulled a key out of his pocket. Christine wondered what the point even was to have a key to a place that was so remote, so inaccessible, but she made no mention of it. Erik surely had his reasons, and even if the reason was that he was a little on the paranoid side, well - that was still a reason, she supposed. 

He opened the front door and her eyes were dazzled by the light contained within the house. She had to blink several times before realizing that he had installed electric lighting inside, something that they had in a few places in the Opera House. It was quite a change from the darkness outside, but a very welcome one once she got used to it. 

Whereas her nerves had melted away once they were inside his house, he seemed to only grow more nervous. Christine found it rather endearing, how he fidgeted anxiously with his hands as he showed her the different rooms in the house. 

"This is the kitchen, and the dining room. We'll be in there in just a little while. This is the sitting room," he gestured to a room with several plush chairs, a fireplace, and shelves full of books. 

He paused next to a closed door. 

"This is my bedroom," he turned and kept walking without opening that door. 

"And this- this room is for Christine," his fidgeting increased as he opened the door and gestured for her to enter. 

She stepped inside. The furniture was a little outdated, probably something that would have been popular several decades ago, and she briefly wondered if perhaps it had belonged to his parents. The walls were painted a lovely shade of pink, and on each flat surface he had placed vases and vases full of flowers - roses and peonies and peach blossoms and carnations, so that the entire room smelled like them. 

"Oh! It's lovely! Is this really all for me?" she turned in a little circle, taking it all in. 

"Of course it is," he replied, and looked down at his shoes. "Christine- Christine can stay here any time she wishes. It is her room, after all."

She tore her eyes away from the giant bed covered in soft looking blankets and more pillows than she had ever had in her life. 

"Can I stay here tonight?" 

He looked up, surprised, before nodding solemnly. 

"If you wish it."

She practically skipped over to him and hugged him. 

"Thank you, Erik." 

She also noticed that he remained firmly outside of the doorway, as though he didn't dare to step across the threshold into the room. 

"I'm afraid I must return to the kitchen now, dinner is almost finished but I must prepare a few more things first. But you, my dear, are free to go anywhere you wish while I do so - this is your house too, now," he brushed a hand over her curls before releasing her and heading towards the kitchen. 

He secretly hoped that, despite his telling her she could go _anywhere_ , she wouldn't follow him to the kitchen. He had never had another person in his home before, and it was a little overwhelming - especially considering that person was Christine. He needed just a few moments by himself in silence to breathe. Luckily for him, Christine had returned to her room after he let her go. 

With Erik gone, Christine set about examining her new room. She opened the drawers of the dresser, thinking of her clothing from upstairs that she'd need to move down here, but was baffled instead when she found the drawers already held clothing - all of it new and expensive looking, and all of it curiously sized exactly to fit her. He opened the wardrobe door and found it full of dresses, all in styles she would enjoy. She placed a hand over her heart, overcome with emotion. Her dear Erik had thought of everything. 

Curious as to what was behind the long, peach curtains that were overlaid with delicate white lace, she pulled them back, expecting perhaps a window that only looked out to the darkness of the lake. Instead there was only more of the pink wall. She pulled back each of the three curtains and found there was nothing behind any of them - they only gave the illusion of hiding a window. How strange, she thought. She pulled them all back over the wall once again and decided she would simply pretend that there were windows there. 

After that she left her room and began to explore the rest of the house. 

In the kitchen, Erik busied himself checking on the chicken and potatoes roasting in the oven, and the soup boiling away in its pot. It would be the first meal they would eat together, and he wanted it to be perfect. He had even prepared a special chocolate pudding, knowing that Christine loved chocolate. He normally disapproved of her eating such sweet things, worried for her voice as always, but she did have several days off and it _was_ a special occasion, after all. 

Nearly a half hour had passed before Christine quietly entered the kitchen. She went right to Erik, her eyes lined with red as though she had been crying or was on the verge of crying. She said nothing as she put her arms around his torso and hugged him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. 

"Christine! What ever is the matter, dearest?" he hesitatingly returned her embrace, unsure of what had happened to cause her to look so forlorn. 

She quiet a long moment, unsure if he would be mad at her. Finally she whispered it to him. 

"I went in your bedroom."


	2. Chapter 2

She waited for his reaction. He stilled. She wasn't certain if perhaps he didn't want her to be going in there - he hadn't shown her the inside of it, after all, and he had been particular about not going in _her_ room... But she was so terribly curious, and he had said this was her house too and that she could go _anywhere_ , and he was practically her husband...

But when she had opened the door and peered through the darkness, she had regretted it right away. 

"And?" he asked. 

"And it's awful."

Erik wracked his brain for what to say. 

"I don't know what to tell you, Christine," he said gently. 

She gave a sad little noise, halfway between a sigh and a moan. 

"How- how long have you been sleeping like that?"

Erik considered this. 

"A very long time now, I should think."

_Oh_. Her poor, unhappy Erik. 

"I don't want you sleeping in there anymore," she sniffed against the tears. 

He huffed a small laugh. 

"My sweet, silly girl. Where else would I sleep if not in my bedroom?"

She glanced up at him, incredulous. Did he really not understand, or did he simply wish to make her say it out loud? 

"You'll sleep in the only actual _bed_ in the house, Erik, not in a coffin."

He grew uneasy. 

"But- but that is _your_ bed, Christine."

She nodded. 

"And that's where you're going to sleep from now on. In a bed."

"But- that's where _you_ sleep..."

"So?" she frowned. 

Erik looked flustered and confused. 

"You can't- we- _Christine_... We can't share a bed, we aren't married yet..."

"I don't care about that. I won't have you sleep in that horrible thing for one more night," her voice sounded close to tears once more. 

"It wouldn't be right," he protested weakly, but he was already feeling his resolve slipping, unable to bear the sight of her so sad. 

"It's a very large bed, Erik, I don't think it will matter too much. Besides," she sniffled. "I'd rather us be improper than- than for you to be in a coffin."

"Oh, Christine," he sighed. How could he refuse her anything? 

"And-and if you don't sleep in that bed, Erik, I'll be forced to take matters into my own hands - I'll burn the coffin, I will! Except, I won't know what I'm doing, and I'll probably send the entire Opera House up in flames! Do you want to be responsible for that, Erik? Burning down the Opera House? Just because you wouldn't sleep in a bed?" she looked up at him, hopeful. 

The words seemed to stick in his throat, but he finally managed to say them with only a hint of a blush across his face. 

"It's alright, Christine. I'll- I won't sleep in my coffin tonight. I'll share the bed with you."

"You won't sleep in the coffin any night, not anymore! Swear it to me!"

He hesitated. 

"I truly mean it, Erik, even if it means I have to spend every night down here to make sure you don't! I can't stand the thought of you- of you... In _that_."

He couldn't very well continue to disagree, could he? If it was what his Christine wanted, then it was what his Christine was going to get. And it wasn't really his fault, was it? After all, _he_ wasn't the one insisting on such a scandalous course of action, so he couldn't really be blamed for complying with what she wanted... He briefly wondered if she was serious about spending every night there, and his heart raced at the thought. He had figured she would move in eventually, but had never thought to hope that it might be so soon - the wedding was still months away. The suddenness of it all was a little frightening, but the prospect was not an unpleasant one. 

He hugged her a little tighter. 

"You don't have to think of me in it, my dear. Your Erik promises he will not spend another night in it."

"Good," she pulled away from him and wiped at her face. "Can I help you set the table?"

He frowned. 

"Absolutely not. You are my guest, after all."

"I am your fiancée," she raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Yes, you are correct, but regardless, I wish for you to not have to worry about a thing tonight. Go sit at the table and I'll bring your food to you, my dear."

She very nearly began to insist that she help him carrying the plates and tureen to the table, but decided against it. She wanted to save the energy that would be spent on any disagreement for later in that evening, just in case he tried to back out of their agreement about the bed at the last minute. 

So she sat down at the table and waited for him as he proudly brought the food in, and she tried desperately to forget the feelings that she had as she had looked in his room. It was such a strange feeling, being cocooned in this feeling of 'normal' in the midst of such an unusual place, only to be confronted with something horribly out of place right in the middle of the normal as though to remind her of where she _really_ was - it was a feeling she'd much rather forget altogether. 

Still her mind brought it up and up again, opening that deceptively simple and normal door, being greeted by the black walls and the ominous pipe organ, the shelves of candles and stacks of compositions, and finally settling her eyes on the horrible coffin in the middle of the room. The sickly dread that had formed in her stomach at the sight of it, and then the awful realization that the nightstand next to it and the blanket hanging over the edge of the coffin implied that this was where Erik _slept_. 

And to then hear that he had been sleeping there for longer than he could remember! Oh, she wanted to weep over it, thinking of all those years her poor Angel spent talking to her and teaching her, how he'd be so nice to her, so kind - and that every evening he was returning to _this_! And she never even knew! Never would have even thought of such a thing! He didn't deserve to have to sleep in such a terrible thing, and yet - and yet, someone somewhere along the lines must have made him feel as though he did. Maybe it was his parents, she wondered. Maybe that was part of why he was hesitant to sleep in that bed, even before it had been designated as 'hers'. What kind of life had he known? She was rather afraid to ask, afraid it would only serve to upset him, to bring up memories he'd rather leave behind. Afraid that it would be too much and she'd never stop crying over the thought of her dear Erik being treated so badly. 

Finally after four trips (it surely would have only been _two_ trips had he not been so stubborn and let her help him) all of the dishes were brought out and he sat down as well. The tomato soup, the rosemary chicken, and the roasted potatoes were almost certainly the best things she had ever tasted, and she eyed the chocolate pudding with an intense anticipation. 

During dinner they carried on a lively conversation about the upcoming opera, Hannibal, and all that that entailed - the costume designs, the stage scenery that would need to be made, casting predictions, ideas for the blocking of the choreography. Each was trying to keep their mind from certain other things - her, from what had just happened before dinner, and him, what was about to happen after dinner. 

" _You_ shall be the prima donna, my dear. I'm sure of it," Erik told her. 

"What? No!" she laughed. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so," he nodded. "You will be splendid."

"Do you think Carlotta will be in it?"

"Hopefully not!"

"Erik! You are terrible!" she dissolved into giggles. "She'll have to be in it _somewhere_ , or else she'll be terribly upset."

"Hmm, you are right," he conceded and gave a wave of his hand. "We'll put her in the chorus."

Christine merely shook her head. It would be quite an interesting production, that much was certain. 

When at last even that divine pudding was finished off, the conversation grew slower and Erik looked at his pocket watch. It was getting late, he realized. Christine was blinking sleepily, absently staring at the empty plates, a smile on her face as her mind replayed the delightful jokes he had been telling her earlier. 

He stood and began to stack the dirty dishes to take them to the kitchen. Christine was pulled out of her daydream by the action. 

"Oh, please let me help you."

Erik didn't have the presence of mind to argue over it, so he let her take some of the dishes. Once there, he began to wash them, and Christine fell right into drying them, as though the two of them had been doing this for ages. His heart ached with love for her, with amazement at how easily they could work together on the simplest of tasks, how she seemed to know exactly what to do without his needing to tell her, as though she were a part of him. It almost brought a tear to his eye and he had to turn away from her for moment, not wanting her to see him cry over having someone to help clean _dishes_ , of all things! 

Once the dishes were clean and dry and put away, there was simply no more putting it off. 

"Are you going to get ready for bed now?" he asked anxiously. 

"Yes, I think so. You're- you're coming too, aren't you?"

He nodded. 

"I will be in after a little while."

Christine made her way to her room, and then to her bathroom which was attached to her room. She washed her face in the basin by the little mirror, finding that Erik had even provided a number of soaps and fine-smelling lotions for her to use. She changed into her nightgown and finished preparing for sleep, and took one last look in the mirror with a deep breath, hoping that she was taking the right course of action. There was nothing left to do now but wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik was likewise going through his nightly routine, only his bathroom had no mirror to look in - but what he lacked in self reflective stares into a mirror he made up for with nervous pacing across his room. He was already ready for bed, there was nothing left to do, reasonably he should just _go_ , but he tarried as long as he could. He was suddenly stricken by the thought that if he did not go to her, she would likely come looking for him, and he truly didn't wish her to have to see his coffin again. 

He padded across the hallway on slippered feet, pausing in front of her door. He forced himself to knock lightly on the door before he lost his nerve and simply stood there or even turned around and left. 

Inside the room Christine jumped at the noise. She hadn't expected him to _knock_ , it was his house after all, but she appreciated the gesture and was glad that he did so, if for no other reason than she'd rather he knock and she jump at the noise than to have him enter the room and she jump at his sudden appearance. She was certain he'd be _crushed_ if he saw her jump because of him. 

"Come in," she called out from where she was standing near the edge of the bed, afraid to have to walk to the door lest her rubbery legs give out on her. 

He carefully opened the door and enter the room shyly, keeping his movements slow so as to give her time _just in case_ she suddenly wanted to change her mind. 

Christine was, as always, a vision of loveliness. He took a moment to let his gaze wander over her. Her hair loose, such a rare change from how she normally wore it pulled back or pinned up. She was wearing one of the nightgowns that Erik had bought for her, modestly cut with a high neckline and long, billowy sleeves, yards of soft fabric hiding her shape underneath them. 

He quickly looked away, ashamed and disgusted with himself for daring to think of her _curves_ as though he had any right to. His hands tightened into fists as he approached the bed, trying to take a steadying breath and pointedly avoiding looking at her lest he start _thinking_ again. To think that after all this time of trying so hard to avoid any sort of impropriety, of carefully schooling his thoughts and eyes and hands around her, of desperately attempting to hide his feelings towards her, that they would end up _here_ \- if someone had told him a mere month ago that in a handful of weeks he would be sleeping in the same bed with her, he likely would have had a heart attack. 

As he pulled back the blankets and settled himself as close to the edge of the bed as he could manage, he was intensely grateful of two things - first, that she had the next day off so that no one would wonder why she wasn't wasn't in her dormitory and begin to ask bothersome questions, and secondly (although also regretfully), that her Mama Valerius was already departed from this world, because if she wasn't already, surely uncovering the knowledge that her dear Christine had spent the night sleeping a mere dozen or so inches away from her tutor before they were married _and_ that is was Christine who had asked to do so would have killed the old woman on the spot. 

But still, Christine had been correct when she had said that it was a very big bed. Perhaps it wouldn't be so horrifically inappropriate after all...

Christine's heart had skipped a beat when she saw him approach. He was clad in long, black silk pajamas, and the sight was such a foreign one that she simply couldn't help but stare. Every other time she had ever seen him he had been wearing so many layers on top of layers, vests and jackets and cravats and gloves and capes, that to finally see him in what she assumed must only be a single layer of clothing seemed positively _indecent_ in all the best of ways. She found herself quite incapable of forming words, instead tearing her eyes away from him so that she could find the presence of mind to remember that they were here to _sleep_ , not ogle each other, and she crawled underneath the blankets. 

When her mind had cleared a little she realized that he was still wearing his mask and wig, and that he didn't seem to be about to take them off. That simply wouldn't do. 

"Aren't you going to take your mask off?"

Erik was silent a moment, realizing it was a bit of a trick question despite how innocently it was posed, and that there was only one answer she was looking for. He placed his pocket watch on the nightstand and stalled for time. 

"I had thought," he finally began. "That perhaps it would be preferable that you not be startled should you wake up during the night."

"I won't be startled," she frowned. 

She knew it must be difficult for him, for one who had lived so alone as he had. Inviting her to dinner and showing her his house had probably been a rather trying task for him, and she was pleasantly surprised that he had even agreed to sleep in here with her. She didn't wish to push him too far past his comfort zone - if he needed to keep the mask and wig on all night to feel some semblance of normalcy or control then she wouldn't demand he take them off. But she also knew that it would be terrible for his skin, an irritation that would likely last for days. 

"I only wish for you to be comfortable," she settled on saying. 

Erik nodded. They were to be married, after all, and the sight of his uncovered face during the night was not something he could hide forever. He figured he might as well start that very night and spare himself the bother of the itchy rash that would surely appear after too many hours in the mask. 

He turned away from her, removed both wig and mask, setting them on the nightstand before turning out the gas lamp, plunging them into total darkness. 

Christine squirmed. She had never told him. She rolled to her side, facing him but unable to see. She closed her eyes. Perhaps, she thought, she could just pretend that her eyes were closed. She would fall asleep quickly, and then it wouldn't even matter. But the terrible knowledge that darkness was, in fact, pressing down all around her weighed heavily on her until she couldn't stand it and her eyes flew open - and it made no difference because everything was just as dark as when they had been closed. 

"Erik," she said timidly. "I'm- I'm afraid of the dark."

The shameful admission hung in the air a moment before the lamp blazed to life again and was then turned down to a faint glow. 

"Ah, Christine," he breathed, concern written across his features. "I'm so sorry. Is this better?"

"Yes, thank you."

He reached a hand across to hers, and she took it and squeezed it. All she really wanted in that moment was to be cuddled up next to him, his arms around her, but she knew better than to ask for _that_. But it truly warmed her heart that he didn't press the issue of her being afraid of the dark, didn't tell her she was silly, that there was nothing to be frightened of and insist she get used to it. She knew that he probably preferred to sleep in the darkness, not only because he was used to it but also so it would help to hide his face from her, and she marveled (certainly not for the first time) at how lucky she was find a man who loved her so much and would do anything for her. 

He let her hand slip out of his after a few minutes, laying back on his pillow and turning to face away from her. 

Christine pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and sighed happily. 

"Goodnight, Erik," she murmured. 

"Goodnight, Christine."


	4. Chapter 4

Christine fell asleep quite quickly. A few thoughts drifted through her sleepy mind before she did - the first was how nice it was to have him there with her, how right it felt and how much she looked forward to a lifetime of this. The other thought was of shy embarrassment, picturing what her Mama Valerius would have said if only she knew. But she couldn't let him sleep in that gruesome box one more night, and staying there with him was the only way she could be assured that he wouldn't return to it. 

It wasn't so bad, Erik told himself. It was an odd feeling to not have any walls around him, an exposed feeling of so much _space_ everywhere that he simply wasn't used to. Still, the mattress was so soft. He couldn't remember if he had ever slept on a mattress before. 

And it wasn't so strange to have Christine there with him. She was so far on the other side of the bed. Surely there was nothing wrong with that. It was fine, this was fine. Everything would continue to be just fine too, so long as she stayed on her side and he stayed on his. There was nothing to worry about... Nothing at all. Before he even knew it he was asleep. 

Erik awoke slowly, feeling more refreshed than he had in years. He didn't feel any stiffness in his neck, no pain in his joints or aching muscles. He felt like he was resting a cloud. He felt oddly warm as well - much warmer than he normally did while sleeping even though he took numerous blankets with him into his coffin. He shifted, attempting to roll to his other side, only to realize something was... off. 

He was warm because there was another person in the bed with him. Not just _in_ the bed with him - Christine was currently wrapped in his embrace, her back pressed firmly against his chest, one of his arms underneath her so his hand could rest next to her and entwine with her hand which was tightly gripping his, and his other arm looped around her torso. 

He panicked. 

What had happened?! _This_ wasn't supposed to happen! He hadn't meant to! 

He scrambled backwards away from her, yanking his arm out from under her, an action that caused her to be rather quickly twisted onto her front, suddenly facing down into the mattress. 

Once safely on his side of the bed again, he held his trembling hands out in front of him, examining them as though the wickedness that flowed his veins would be clearly visible there. Poor Christine had only wanted to get a good night's rest, and he had practically _fondled_ her like some kind of a lecher. 

His mother was right - his childhood captors were right - there was something _wrong_ with him, something terribly wrong, something evil and wicked that lived deep inside of him, and that's why he was the way he was, and surely he had let that wickedness had infected Christine as well - why else would she ask for something so improper, so unlike her! He had poisoned her, corrupted her! When had it happened, when had he ruined the purity of her soul? Was it when they had kissed? No, surely his poison had been unknowingly seeping into her for much longer than that - otherwise she never would have kissed him in the first place... He bit his lip, trying his best not cry. 

"Erik...?"

He looked over at her. She didn't look corrupted... She simply looked confused and sleepy and a little irked. Perhaps there was still hope for her. 

"Christine," he choked out. "Please forgive me, please. I didn't mean- I never intended-"

"Forgive you?" her brow furrowed. "For what?"

Ah. Perhaps she didn't know, then. He swallowed hard, his face burning with shame. 

"I am afraid I was... Less than a gentleman, Christine. When I awoke I was... I had my arms around you, it was terribly unseemly, and I'm so, so sorry-"

"Was- was that all?" she raised an eyebrow. 

He nodded, unable to meet her eye. 

"I am sorry, Christine. I know that was not your intent when you asked me to join you last night, and I truly do not know what happened, and I never intended to take advantage of the situation in such a way."

Christine would have laughed at the absurdity of his copious apologies if only he didn't look on the verge of tears about it all. 

"Erik," she said softly. "It's okay, really."

He shook his head. 

" _No_ , it's not okay. It wasn't okay to hold you while you were asleep and didn't even know."

It was Christine's turn to blush. 

"Well, you see," she started shyly. "I was actually awake, Erik."

"You were?" he dared to glance miserably at her. 

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stop me?"

She looked down, idly tracing her finger over the floral pattern on the quilt. 

"Because... Because I was rather enjoying it."

Erik sat dumbstruck. 

It was true - Christine had awoken some time before Erik had, and she found that he had his arms placed lightly over and around her, which had been a bit of a surprise but most definitely not an unpleasant one. She had wracked her brain trying to remember which of them had been the one to initiate it - had it been her, her unconscious mind playing out what she had been longing for just before she fell asleep? Had it been him, who had lived a life so desperately starved for touch that he had unwittingly sought her out? 

Or had it been a combination of both of those options, a couple so deeply in love that not even the bonds of slumber could keep them apart? 

Regardless of who initiated it, she had found it quite delightful, and had snuggled closer to him, carding her fingers in his. She had kept as still as she could, not wanting to wake him, wanting that moment to last as long as it could, relishing the sensation of his even breath against her neck, the rise and fall of his chest against her back, the subtle twitch of his fingers next to hers (she wondered if perhaps he was dreaming of playing the piano). She wasn't certain how long they stayed like that, but it had felt like heaven. And then without any warning she was being unceremoniously tossed onto her face, Erik pulling back from her as though he'd been burned. 

Seeing that he didn't seem about to respond, and touched by the regretful, conflicted look on his face, she scooted closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

"Erik, in all of the years I've known you, you have never been anything but a perfect gentleman to me. You have nothing to feel badly about, nothing at all. I loved being able to wake up with you there next to me. Now tell me, how did you sleep last night? How did it feel?"

He finally looked at her, her words beginning to calm him. She was an angel, he thought to himself. Her hair was mussed, and it stuck out in places at odd angles, but she was still beautiful and her soul was even more radiant - how could she not be a heavenly being to offer such kindness and forgiveness after she had awoken in the arms of a devil? 

"I slept... Quite well, actually," he reached for the pocket watch on the night stand. 

"Good!" she beamed at him. 

He frowned down at the watch face. 

"Christine, its- its morning already," he looked confused. 

"Yes, Erik, I assume that's why we woke up."

"But I didn't wake up at all during the night... I always wake up several times during the night."

Her smile disappeared. 

"Why do you wake up?"

He thought about it. Sometimes he'd be laying across his own arm and wake up with a feeling of pins and needles running down it, or his lower back would ache from laying flat, or his hip would flare with a sharp pain from laying on his side... All of these things woke him up quite frequently, in addition to various other pains and disturbances. 

"I, ah, I suppose because, perhaps- I do not have the most _comfortable_ of sleeping arrangements," he said slowly. 

Christine huffed and rolled her eyes, grabbing her pillow from behind her and soundly smacking him with it. 

"That's because coffins are _not_ for sleeping, Erik!" 

"Ow! Christine!" he raised his arms to protect himself from her onslaught. 

She threw the pillow across the room and flopped back down on the bed, staring at ceiling. 

"Who did this bed belong to?" she asked softly. 

"My mother."

Christine realized she knew very little of his childhood, or even his life as a young man. 

"Did you sleep in a coffin as a child?" the words were barely audible, as though she feared the answer but needed to hear it anyway. 

"No," he propped his elbow against the bed and rested his head on his hand, facing her. 

"So you slept in a bed, back then? A regular bed?" her voice was hopeful. 

"No, I didn't say that."

Her arm was stretched out by her head, the excess fabric pooled around it. He let his hand creep closer to her, wanting to reach out and be nearer to her, but not daring to touch her directly. He touched the fabric of her sleeve, rolling it a little between his fingers. 

"A coffin is a improvement from sleeping on the floor, I should think," he said softly. 

She swallowed. 

"Was- was your family poor?"

Perhaps they weren't able to afford a bed for him... Christine's own childhood had many times when her papa couldn't afford very much, and there were more nights than she could count that she had spent on the floor too. 

"No."

"Oh."

Christine looked so terribly sad that Erik didn't have the heart to say anymore on the matter. If sleeping on the hard ground as a little boy upset her so, how would she react to his years in the traveling circus spent in a cage until they thought they were certain he wouldn't run away? He couldn't tell her that, that his mother had sold him as a child to the circus as a sideshow oddity, that he had been called a living corpse, the devil's child, that when he had finally dared asked for a bed, a simple mattress like the other performers had, they had given him a coffin instead. 

Christine was the only person in his life who had ever told him that he could sleep in a real bed, like he was regular person who was worthy of doing normal things and having normal experiences like anyone else, but he couldn't tell her that. His angel should never be sad, and to hear those stories of the past would only bring her sadness. 

Life was harsh, no one knew this more than him, and he vowed to protect her from its cruelty. 

She shifted to study his face as he watched her, the motion causing her sleeve to slip down her arm slightly, exposing her pale wrist. It would only take the smallest of movements to touch her there, to drag his thumb across that delicate skin. He longed to press his lips against her exposed wrist, to feel the rhythm of her precious heart there. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. He had vowed to protect her, and that included from himself. 

He pulled away from her and sat up. 

"Come now, Christine, we can't tarry in bed all day. You don't want to waste your day off!"


	5. Chapter 5

Erik watched her closely the following day. She was still the Christine he had come to know all these years - she still seemed to be just as kind, just as sweet, just as heavenly. Perhaps his touch hadn't polluted her after all. 

She had asked if she could spend the entire day in his - _their_ \- home, and he had agreed, finding that once he was used to having her there he much preferred that over his usual solitude. He was delighted to find that he enjoyed her simple presence there - her quiet footsteps and nearly-but-not-quite silent breathing and the little noises she didn't even realize she was making as she came across interesting parts in the book she was reading and how she'd hum a tune under her breath every so often. When he had to deign to be around other people, whether in person or from behind a wall, he often found that similar such habits of theirs were infuriatingly irritating or even anxiety inducing, but to him Christine could do no wrong, so if she wanted to hum a song for no reason at all, well then, as far as he was concerned he was blessed to hear it. 

He was pleasantly surprised that she wanted to stay, even when he informed her that he wouldn't be able to keep her company for several hours because he had to go over Andre's staging notes for the upcoming production of Hannibal and make corrections. She sat in the other room, her bare feet tucked under her on the couch, absorbed in reading a book from one of the many on his shelves. It warmed his heart how at home, how comfortable she looked there. 

When his work was finally finished - really, it was like Andre didn't even know _how_ to stage a show, it was simply ridiculous! - he thought for a moment about to do next. He went to his bedroom for a few moments, and then entered the sitting room and asked Christine if she'd like to hear him play the organ for her. 

She had accepted immediately, excited to hear him play an instrument that was clearly a favorite of his, and it surely had to be a favorite or why else would he keep it in his bedroom? 

_his bedroom_

She began to regret it as they approached his bedroom door, when she suddenly remembered what else was in that room. 

He entered first, gas lamp in hand and turned up brightly - he had apparently not wired either bedroom with the electric lighting. She followed apprehensively, her eyes immediately going to the middle of the room in fear. But instead of a coffin, there was only a blank empty space. She breathed a sigh of relief. He must have moved it somewhere. 

With that horrid thing gone, she could focus on his music, which was beautifully entrancing. He played song after song for her, some that she knew and some she had never heard anywhere before, and she realized that those must have been ones he wrote himself. She wondered if perhaps she was the first person to ever hear those particular songs, a thought that filled her with pride and joy. She wanted to jump up from where she was sitting and throw her arms around him - but of course, if she did that, he wouldn't be able to keep playing... So she stayed put and the music continued. 

After a light lunch he gave her a tour of the various entrances and exits that could be used to access the cavern that contained the little house - some that required the gondola to reach and one that didn't but was incredibly difficult to get to. 

He let her help him cook dinner, and afterwards she had asked if she could stay there again that night - shyly following up with a request that he join her once more. 

Erik didn't answer right away. She was off from work the next day as well, so there was no issue there. He truly liked having her there, too, and surely she must like being around him or she wouldn't ask. And it wasn't an unprecedented request - they _had_ already slept in the same bed. 

She looked down at her plate, embarrassed at having asked now that he wasn't replying. Did he think her too forward, too wanton? She frowned. It certainly wasn't her intention - she merely wanted the both of them to have a good night's sleep. But perhaps that was the problem - perhaps she was being too naïve, expecting too much from him to ask him to chastely lie there next to her all night. She'd always think of him as an angel, but he _was_ still a man. She desperately wished she knew the right words to explain it all to him - if only the words could be clear to herself as well. Where were the words to say that she didn't _care_ about what anyone would say if they found she wasn't sleeping in her dormitory anymore, that she didn't care if anything _happened_ between them or not because she already considered him her husband even if they hadn't signed a paper saying he was, that she only cared about the both of them being happy and how could he be happy if he didn't think he was worthy enough to sleep in a bed? And how could she be happy if he was not? 

It was all tangled up in her mind, but the silence was unbearable so she looked up at him, about to say something, say anything, when at last he responded and saved her from having to try and voice her jumbled, confusing thoughts. 

"Of course, Christine, you can stay tonight and I will join you."

They were both a little less nervous as he entered her room that night, no longer in uncharted territory. 

She was dressed in another of the nightgowns he had bought for her. As she had been going through her dresser drawers just a little earlier, she had been slightly surprised at the styles he had picked, all of them reminding her of something Mama Valerius herself would have chosen for her - not exactly styles she would have imagined a husband would want to see his wife in, but perhaps it only made sense considering how cold it was so far underground. Or perhaps, she thought with a wry smile as she noticed how he carefully averted his eyes until she had pulled the quilt up to her shoulders, perhaps he had envisioned that some scenario like this might happen and had wanted to plan ahead. 

He left the gas lamp burning this time and removed his mask and wig without any prompting. She had just enough time to whisper her thanks for lovely day and say goodnight to him before she drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the excursions in the catacombs and tunnels and on the lake. 

And it was that very lake which made an appearance in her dream. She was alone in the gondola, trying to pole it to shore but the shore was nowhere in sight and somewhere in the distance there was a voice, a haunting, haunted _voice_ and it was singing, and try as she might the pole refused to send the gondola where she wanted it to go and she was calling and calling for Erik but he wouldn't answer, and suddenly that voice got louder, closer, and then the gondola was tipping over and she tried to scream but no sound came out, only the sound of a terrible splash as she hit the water and the sickly realization that she wasn't alone under that water - there was a siren, the creature that had been singing just moments earlier - the siren had tipped her into the water, and suddenly the siren was wrapping her long-fingered freezing hands around Christine's neck and she was going to drown her! 

Christine woke with a gasp. It had seemed so real! She turned over, turning to face Erik and the table with the gas lamp on it. To her surprise Erik was still awake, sitting up and reading a book in the glow of the little lamp. He glanced over at her when she moved. 

"Erik," she said in small voice. "I had a nightmare."

She looked so small, so scared as she stared up at him with pleading eyes, her voice trembling. He certainly couldn't just tell her to roll over and go back to sleep, could he? That would be downright _cruel_. And besides... He had already touched her last night, and nothing terrible had happened... 

"Christine," he said soothingly. "Come here."

He placed the book on the table and reached his arms towards her. 

She gladly scooted closer to him, letting him pull her into an embrace. She took it a step further and nestled her face against his chest. His surprise quickly faded and he let her stay like that. 

"It's alright, Christine, you're safe. Nothing can harm you," he gently lowered them back into the bed, so that both of them were lying down. 

He thought that in a few moments he should pull away from her, perhaps. But her hands gripped tightly to the front of his pajama shirt, and as he ran a hand up and down her spine between her shoulders he could feel that she was trembling still. Whatever her mind had seen fit to show her while sleeping must have terrified her. And really, if you thought about it, only a _monster_ wouldn't seek to comfort her further, and of course Erik didn't want to be a monster, so it only seemed right that he use the hand that wasn't currently tracing up and down her back to brush her hair away from her face, and then to gently comb his fingers through that long hair as he murmured soft words of assurance. 

It didn't take very long for her to calm enough to fall asleep once again. He considered if he should place her back on her side of the mattress - it definitely seemed the most chivalrous thing to do, but was it the _right_ thing to do? She was the one who had pressed herself so close to him, that certainly wasn't his doing. He would be within his rights to leave her there, he thought. Besides, what if he placed her on the other side and she had another nightmare? But again - it _was_ a terribly intimate position they were in. Was it too intimate, considering their situation? But hadn't Christine said she'd prefer being improper to Erik sleeping in a coffin - so wouldn't it follow that she would probably also prefer to be improper than for her to be alone and scared if she had another bad dream? 

Erik debated himself on the finer points of moral relativity for some time, feeling all the while that he _should_ return her to her side of the bed, yet still unwilling to actually release her from where she had nestled herself, finding that the trust and affection his angel was giving him was far too precious a gift to give up. Finally the choice was taken out of his hands when he nodded off, still warring against himself and still holding her. 

He was the first to wake the next morning. It was much less of shock the second time around, but he couldn't help the flicker of guilt and shame that still coursed through him. At least he didn't panic and throw her to the other side of the bed, he thought to himself. 

His breath stuttered and froze when Christine sleepily nuzzled against his collarbone as she slowly woke. He had never dared to hope that such moments might ever be his. He wanted nothing more than kiss the crown of her head - a soft, reverent kiss, nothing more - but he didn't trust himself to be able to give her only _one_ kiss and then stop there. The kiss could wait until they were both upright once more, not to mention wearing more clothing than they currently had on. 

She blinked awake, shyly smiling up at him. How glad she was that he hadn't reacted the same way as the previous morning! 

"Thank you, Erik," she whispered to him. 

"Did my Christine have any better dreams?"

She shook her head. 

"No more dreams, but that's better than nightmares, I think."

"I think I'd agree, my dear," he twisted a lock of her hair around his finger, suddenly finding his mind preoccupied with wondering just how _soon_ they could get married, and whether or not the entire process could be expedited in any way. 

She disentangled herself from his arms and sat up. 

"I go back to work tomorrow, Erik. Would you like to go for a walk today? If you aren't busy, that is."

It was as if she'd read his mind. His heart sped up. Of course, if they were going to have a church wedding, he'd have to be able to actually _go_ to a church. Going for a walk outside was surely the step towards getting to the church. 

He took a deep breath. He didn't feel ready to go outside, but he didn't know if he'd ever feel ready. And if he kept putting it off, their wedding would have to be pushed further and further back. And he certainly didn't intend to be the kind of man who promised to marry a girl only to string her along and put off the wedding and _all the while have her sleep in his bed_. It simply wouldn't do. 

He tried his best to muster a smile for her. 

"A walk might be... nice."

His tone was almost convincing.


	6. Chapter 6

Erik stood by the door that led to the outside world and fidgeted with his gloves. Christine would be up any minute and then she would expect them to go outside. He scolded himself for how fast his heart was beating and for the sweat that was swiftly making his mask even more uncomfortable. Why, this should be the easier thing in the world! It's not like he'd never been outside. He'd been plenty of times. 

It was just... 

He'd been out increasingly less lately, and by 'lately' that meant nearly the past decade. There was a reason he didn't like going out. It didn't feel... _right_. It felt better, safer even, to simply stay inside the Opera House. 

Except now he had a reason to go out. And he _wanted_ to go out, but old habits are hard to break. 

Suddenly Christine appeared at his side, smiling sweetly up at him. 

"Are you ready, dear?" she asked as she took his arm. 

He said nothing - his throat felt too dry for any words to form, so he simply pushed the door open and hoped that his legs wouldn't give out from the stress of it all as he stepped into the garish sunlight. 

"I was thinking we could walk along the Seine?" 

His muddled mind vaguely heard Christine's words and he offered a nod. 

Had the world always been this bright? This loud? This crowded? 

Surely everyone could hear how loud his heartbeat was, and if they could hear it then obviously they would look to see where the noise was coming from, and then they'd _look_ at him, and of course once they looked they'd _gawk_ and then they'd point and they'd scream - or laugh! - and demand to know why he wore a mask, why such a lovely young woman was on the arm of a monster, why he dared to mingle with humanity like he was one of them and had the right to. And then surely someone would recognize him, realize that this was the boy who ran away from the traveling circus all those years ago, and he'd forced into a cage again because now, now they realize he can't be trusted after all and they'll never let him out again and once he's in the cage he'll never see Christine again and everything will be over for him and, and- 

And the world started to spin just a little. Erik stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, surprising Christine. 

"Are you alright, Erik?" 

"I just need a moment," his voice was soft and faraway, and it concerned her. 

He was worrying her, he realized. That wouldn't do. As suddenly as he had stopped, he lurched forward again, intent on continuing the walk. 

He couldn't worry her, couldn't let her know just how difficult it was to keep his thoughts straight out here. It would upset her, for one thing - she'd be upset that it was so difficult, that he struggled like this, upset that he couldn't do normal things like a normal man, upset that she had promised herself to someone who _couldn't even walk to the Seine_ without panicking, upset that her life was going to be ruined by having to help him get over this silly but debilitating fear of his, upset with _him_ because clearly there was something wrong with him, something broken! _She couldn't find out!_ She would leave him if she found out, and he wouldn't blame her. 

But what would he do if Christine left him? What kind of life was left for him after that? She wouldn't take him seriously if she knew, she wouldn't even want to keep singing with him after she found out how pathetic he really was. 

His grip over her hand on his arm tightened and she glanced up at him. His jaw looked tight, as though he were clenching his teeth terribly hard, and there was a thin sheen of perspiration on his all-too-pale face. She frowned. He didn't look well. 

He tried to force himself to breath normally, but all that managed to do was make his face tingle in an unpleasant way. Why was his eyesight suddenly blurry? Was he going blind? 

And where was the blasted Seine? Shouldn't they be there by now? They had been walking for ages, it seemed to him. He felt too exposed, too visible out there. He desperately wanted to back in his home, sitting alone (except for Christine, of course) where no one was judging him and no one could sneak up behind him and danger wasn't lurking around every single corner. The thought that they weren't even there yet _and_ the fact that they'd also have to walk the same distance once again to get back home was too much for him. 

Christine could feel his footsteps starting to falter, his hand squeezing over hers nervously. She fretted. Had the Seine been too far for him? Was this a mistake, too much at once? She knew he didn't go out, but she wasn't too certain of what all that entailed - and she was afraid she was about to find out. 

Erik stopped to lean up against a wall, breaths coming in gasps. He felt like he was going to be sick. 

"Erik! Are you okay?" Christine put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

He sank to his knees and looked up at her, eyes unfocused. She kneeled down beside him, uncaring about anyone who might see the odd scene. She placed her other hand on the unmasked side of his face. 

"Christine," he said in a trembling whisper. "Christine, I need to go home, please."

She nodded vigorously. 

"Of course, Erik, of course we can go home right now." 

She helped him to his feet and they started back the way they had come, his steps unsteady but hurried. 

His mind screamed at him and called him all sorts of names, and his face burned with shame at having to turn back before they had even reached the Seine, and he was horrified that he had done the one thing he dearly didn't want to do - to let Christine see him like this - but nothing could have convinced him to stay outside for a single second longer. 

They hurried back and at last slipped into the darkness of the catacombs. The journey to the house on the lake was a silent one, and even once inside the house neither one spoke until finally Christine broke the silence. 

"Here, sit down and rest, Erik," she led him to the couch. "Stay right there and I'll get you a glass of water, okay?"

He nodded mutely, not meeting her eye. 

She sighed when she reached the kitchen. She should have know better, she told herself sternly. She should have talked it over with him beforehand, asked what might happen to him when he was outside so she could have been prepared and able to help him better. She also should have known the Seine was too far away to start out with - next time they would pick a very small goal, perhaps even just to the end of the Opera House and back. 

When she entered the sitting room again, she found he'd thrown off his coat and hat and gloves, leaving them on the floor, and he had curled up on the couch. Although he was facing away from her, she could tell from the way his shoulders were shaking that he was crying. 

"Erik!" she cried as she rushed over to him. 

She placed the water glass on the table and fell to her knees in front of the couch. 

"Erik, it's okay, I'm here, you're safe at home. What can I do for you? Please, tell me how to help," she nearly begged him. 

His poor Christine, so concerned for him. How could he have done this to her? Why couldn't he just have held it together for one pitiful excursion? She had known he was uncomfortable in crowds and outside, yes, but she didn't know the extent of it - until now, that is. He cringed under her gentle touch. Now she would realize how impossible a life with him would be, how unattainable even a wedding in church would be, and she'd rethink the whole thing. And if she didn't - well, maybe she should. That thought made him weep even harder. What had he ever been thinking, that they could be happy together? He was like a big rock, tied to her as they were both thrown in the ocean, and he would only cause her to sink and drown. 

Christine was at a loss of what to do. She had never seen him like this before. Her heart twisted for him, for everything he must going through at that moment - and for everything that he'd gone through in the past that had brought him to this. So she did the only thing she could think of - she began to gently sing. 

Slowly, he started to calm. The tears and coughing stopped, leaving only a dull burn in his eyes and throat and a numbness in his hands and legs. Her soft voice was soothing, a reminder that there was nothing to fear. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? There was nothing to fear out there on the path to the Seine and never had been. He felt so foolish, so ashamed. He sighed. 

"Are you starting to feel any better, my love?" she asked kindly. 

He gave a small shrug, too embarrassed over himself to face her yet. 

"Here, sit up so I can sit on the couch too," she urged him. 

He did as she requested, and she sat down beside him. Once she was there she coaxed him into laying back down again, this time with his head on her lap. She ran her finger through his hair - his real hair, he realized suddenly, not even aware of when she had deftly removed his wig, but finding the sensation of her fingers too calming to care. He turned his eyes away from hers, unable to bear the kindness and sympathy and love he saw there. He didn't deserve any of those things. 

"I'm sorry, Christine," he croaked, his voice hoarse from crying. 

"Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for, dear. You didn't do anything wrong."

He shook his head. 

"I- I couldn't even go for a walk-" tears were threatening to begin again. 

"But you did go for a walk, Erik! What on earth do you think we were doing out there? You walked outside with me, almost to the Seine," she insisted. 

"But we didn't make it _to_ the Seine," he said mournfully. 

"I don't think the destination matters, Erik. A walk is still a walk," she hesitated. "And _I'm_ sorry. I think, perhaps, the Seine was an overly lofty goal for a first outing."

"It wasn't _your_ fault, Christine."

"But it wasn't yours either - you didn't chose to react that way, to feel those things."

He turned from his back to his side, facing away from her, and sighed. The question in the back of his mind bubbled up to the front until he simply couldn't stop it from spilling out. 

"Christine," he pleaded in a small voice. "What if I never get any better?"

He steeled himself for her sighs, for her demands that he _must_ improve, for the gently delivered but nonetheless heartbreaking truth that she would move on if that were the case - move on with her life in the light and the wide open spaces that scared him so while he was left behind in the cellars and the damp and the dark. 

Her reply, when it came, was simply said but there could be no doubt about the sincerity behind the words. 

"Then I will love you all the same."

He took a deep breath. Her fingers continued their sweep and drag through his hair. 

"Christine..."

"And I shall buy us board games, and card games, and books to read, and we shall do crafts and cook and sing, and we shall be very, very happy in this house, I should think," she continued. 

He could scarcely believe it, but she had replied so quickly, without any hint of hesitation or uncertainty - Christine was a smart young woman, surely that scenario had crossed her mind before, Erik realized. She had already considered that he might never go outside at all, and she hadn't thought to leave him because of it, instead making plans of their life together that accommodated him and his peculiar needs. 

It was comforting to think on that, but still - he didn't _want_ to never get better. He wanted to go places in the world with his wife, take her for walks by the Seine, go to dinner in fancy restaurants, go on _vacations_ with her... And he had truly thought that now that he had a reason to go outside, it would be so much _easier_ \- but it wasn't. It was still just as difficult, just as frightening. 

"But Erik, it's too soon to give up hope of getting better. It's only been one outing, you know," she reminded him. 

He gave a little nod, letting one hand rest on her knee. 

"And now that we know the Seine is currently too far, we have a goal to work up to. We can take it very slowly, one step at time. Maybe- maybe tomorrow we just stand outside the door for a little while and then come back. There's no rush, love."

He sighed again. She might say there was no rush, but he still felt one. He refused to make her give up her dream of a wedding in a big church, and that wedding couldn't happen until he was comfortable enough to get through an entire day with _people_ and _travel_ and all of those other terrible things. It didn't feel fair to stretch the engagement out for a year or longer - if it were up to Erik, they'd already be married, but those plans were hampered by his fear of outings. But still - Christine _was_ oddly insistent that Raoul be at the wedding, and as he was currently off galavanting around the North Pole or some other such nonsense... Erik mentally calculated the time left until the boy would return and wondered if perhaps he would feel up to it by the time Raoul got back. 

"Erik?" Christine broke the silence that had settled over them. 

"Hm?"

She was silent a moment longer, hesitant about continuing. 

"I'm proud of you for trying, today," she finally said. "I know it wasn't easy for you, and I know you tried your best. I love you."

He found he didn't trust himself to reply without embarrassing himself further, so he settled for giving her knee a gentle squeeze. He thought back to the night he had finally proposed to her, when she had promised to be patient with him as he tried to learn how to get along out in the world - he knew that she thought she was sincere, but at the time she couldn't possibly know what she was attempting to promise. But now - now she knew and she was still keeping her promise to him. It made him want to weep, but she had seen enough of his tears for one day. 

Neither was certain how long they stayed like that on the couch, but finally Erik sat up. He pulled Christine into a hug. 

"My Christine is so kind to her poor Erik, he loves her very much," he murmured. "I am afraid, my dear, that I won't feel up to doing very much the rest of the day."

"That's alright, Erik. I don't mind," she paused. "Do- do you mind if I stay here, though? I can be very quiet if you need me to be, or I can go back upstairs if you prefer..."

"Stay," he simply said, kissing her forehead. 

She graciously offered to cook dinner for them, which he gratefully accepted. He was still tired from the fiasco that morning, and also let her clear the table and wash the dishes - though silently he vowed he would make it up to her somehow, Christine deserved better than to be cleaning up after him as though she were his maid. Perhaps he would order a new dress for her. 

Thoughts of what he could do for her or gift to her to show his appreciation occupied his mind as he dressed and prepared for bed. He was so consumed that he didn't even notice when she stopped in his doorway. He happened to glance up, right as he was situating his coffin back into its precise spot in the middle of the room after having dragged it from the closet where he had hidden it from her the other day. 

He saw standing there, her hand over her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears - because of him. He dropped the coffin, its crash echoing through the room and making them both wince. 

As she had been washing he dishes, she was debating herself on where she'd spend the night. She had work tomorrow - there was always the possibility that someone might notice she wasn't in her dormitory room. She had grown so fond of their current arrangement, but was it still feasible now that she was back to rehearsals? 

She had finished the dishes and gone to seek him out and get his opinion. But upon seeing the sight set before her, her mind was suddenly made up. 

She walked right into his room - right up next to him, right next to his coffin - and took his hand. Still holding her firm grip on him, she turned toward the door and tugged him along with her, and he had no choice but to follow. 

She led him into her own room and to the edge of her bed, where she pulled back the blankets and made him sit. She quickly went and closed the door to the hallway, hoping he wouldn't attempt to make an escape, and then went into her bathroom to change into her nightgown. He had already seen her in her nightgown, and they had slept right next to each other for several nights now, yes - but undressing in front of him seemed just a step too far, so she closed the bathroom door before she changed. Never had her fingers flown so fast to divest herself of her many layers, fearful that if she tarried too long he would come up with some argument against her staying. 

But when she opened the bathroom door mere moments later, he was still sitting just where she had left him, a look of uncertainty on his face. She got in on her side of the bed and placed a hand on his chest to gently push him back until he was lying down, and then she pulled the blankets over them both and wrapped her arms around him. He lay there frozen for only a moment before reaching to remove his mask, and then he returned her embraced. 

"Goodnight, Erik," she murmured against his shoulder. 

After everything that had happened that day, she still thought he should share her bed, still thought he was worthy of such a thing? 

"Christine," he whispered. "Are you certain? What- what if someone sees that you aren't in your room?"

She shrugged. 

"So? Let them see. I don't care."

He hugged her a little closer to him and smiled. His precious angel, with such a brazen audacity in how she faced the world. He dearly hoped she would never regret her choice, because really it did seem so easily regrettable, but having her there with him like this was everything he'd ever dreamed of and he was not about to turn that opportunity down if she freely offered it to him. 

There was something Christine wanted to bring up to him, something she desperately needed to say to him. But it had been such an eventful day, such an overwhelming day. It could wait for a little while longer, she told herself. Tomorrow, she would bring it up to him, she vowed. Tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Christine's nerves were buzzing from the moment she woke up. 

There was simply no time to ask him in the morning - she had to rush to make it upstairs on time, regretfully having to practically leap from his sleeping embrace, waking him and causing a look of panic to flash across his face as he thought that perhaps she was fleeing from him. She dressed quickly and reassured him that she had simply overslept due to how lovely it was stay in such a bed with such company before she made her way upstairs. 

And there certainly wasn't time to bring it up with him during rehearsal, even though she could feel him watching the entire time. Whenever she had a free moment her eyes would scan the rafters or glance over at Box 5, wondering where exactly he was but knowing he was there all the same. But she never had more than a few moments to herself, so even if he did make himself known she wouldn't have been able to fully explain it at all. 

Finally rehearsals were over, but then her friends wanted to chat for what seemed like forever afterwards - she loved her friends and normally would have enjoyed their company, but she had _pressing matters_ to discuss with her future husband. At last - at last! - she managed to break away from them. She scurried back to her dressing room, anxiously glancing at the mirror he would often meet her behind after rehearsals or shows. 

"Erik? Are you there?"

Silence. She bit her lip. Drat! He could be near impossible to find at times.

She wandered back to the stage, glancing around again and hoping he would see that she was looking for him. She had to leave so suddenly that morning that they hadn't even had time to discuss when they would see each other next. 

It was then that she thought she saw a flutter of movement in Box 5. She sighed a little and wondered to herself why the Opera House had to be so _big_ before she wearily set off to the stairs that would lead to the box - and silently prayed that he'd still be there by the time she reached it. 

Once there she heard small noises coming from within. _Someone_ was inside, clearly. With a faint quirk of her lips, she knocked on the door. Either it would be Erik, or it would be an interloper she would have to chase out. She knew how he hated when other people sat there. 

The noise inside stilled. 

"Erik?" she ventured. "It's just Christine. Are you in there?"

There was a moment's pause before the bolt on the other side unlatched and the door creaked open slightly, a wary Erik peering around the edge of the door. Upon determining that it really was only Christine, he opened it wider. 

"Would you like to come in, my dear?"

"Thank you," she entered and sat down in one of the chairs, noticing the papers strewn haphazardly about in the near darkness. 

He picked one up and scowled at it, tossing it into a different pile, and she realized this must have been the motion that had caught her notice. She picked one up and looked it over. 

"Goodness, Erik - are these _all_ notes for the directors?"

He gave an absentminded nod as write something down. 

"Of course," he said. 

"Was- was it really that bad?" she asked sheepishly. _She_ had thought that it had gone quite well for a first run through. 

"It was," he replied gravely. 

There was a pause before he looked up, a look of eager concern on his face. 

" _You_ were splendid as always, Christine - it was everyone else that needs to improve," he hastily told her. 

She blushed and looked away. 

"So you don't think I missed my cue in the third scene of act two?" she asked demurely. 

He hesitated and she giggled. 

"That ah, that cue could be rewritten," he insisted. 

He continued to write down notes, and Christine feared just how many pages there would be - if he kept this up every rehearsal by the time the show was ready to open there would be enough to fill a book, surely. He reached the end of one page and placed it on a stack before glancing over at her as she leaned on the armrest and watched him. 

"Did you want something, Christine? Other than company?"

She shook her head. 

"I did, but I didn't realize you were working. I don't want to distract you."

He set the papers aside. 

"What is it, my dear? Work can wait."

"No, no - it's alright! Finish your notes and then we can talk," she was suddenly gripped by fierce case of nerves. 

He wanted to press the matter but she seemed insistant, so he resumed his writing and she rehearsed her planned words in her head. She watched as the words scrawled across the blank whiteness, seemingly endless. For a brief moment she was almost glad that he kept his corrections to the written word and didn't stand onstage and direct - he was a stickler for perfection, as she well knew from her own lessons, and she was certain that rehearsals would take twice as long with him at the helm, constantly starting and stopping until he was pleased with the result. At last he gathered up all the papers in a single stack and sighed before turning to her. 

"And just what has been bothering my little Christine today?" he asked with a smile. "Is it the cello player's lack of a properly tuned instrument? Because if so, I must agree with you, my dear."

She pushed down the sudden urge to flee from the little room, overwhelmed with shyness. How could she possibly bring this up to him? But _not_ bringing it up was simply not an option, so she forged ahead. 

"Well, its about my room in your- _our_ house, you see," she paused to observe him. 

He nodded in encouragement. 

"You did say I could stay in it whenever I wanted, didn't you?" she went on. 

"Of course! It is your room, Christine, you may come and go as you please."

"And it's entirely mine, yes? To do with as I see fit?"

"It is absolutely yours - you may do anything you please with it," he assured her. 

She cleared her throat and willed herself not to stutter. 

"Then I would like to move in to it."

Erik chuckled nervously. 

"What? Wh- why would Christine wish to do such a thing?"

She ducked her head, embarrassed. 

"Because... I mean, we are going to live together after we get married, aren't we?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. " _After_ we get married."

"Do- do you not want me to move in with you yet?"

"Oh, Christine, no, it's not like that... I love having you with me at home, it's just- well it's not _proper_ for us to live together if we aren't married," he fretted. 

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. 

"I rather think _that_ ship has sailed for us, Erik - wouldn't you agree?"

He slumped down in his chair, fidgeting with his hands as a cold sweat broke out on his brow. 

"Besides," she continued. "It doesn't have to be any different than how things have been the past few days... And we don't even have to share a bed if you don't want to... We can buy you a real bed of your own, you know."

Erik recoiled at the thought of his own bed, but even more so at the thought of sleeping in a bed that was jarringly absent of Christine. Yes, sleeping with her next to him was still quite foreign to him, and it was occasionally terribly embarrassing and awkward, but he had found it was a situation he could easily get used to. He could sleep in his coffin, because that was what he deserved, or he could share a bed with an angel because she chose to graciously bless him, but to sleep in a real bed by himself was not a scenario he envisioned ever happening. 

The silence stretched just a moment too long, and Christine quickly supplied the answer to the question he didn't ask but she could sense lurking just beneath the surface. 

"Of course, I also have no qualms about continuing to sleep in the same bed, either. Our current situation pleases me just fine, you know - I just want you to be comfortable with it, too."

He smiled and reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze. 

"I appreciate your concern for me, Christine. But what about you - are you certain this is what you want? Have you really thought this through?"

She frowned. 

"I am certain, Erik."

"What will people say when they find you no longer live in your dormitory? What will you tell them?"

"Well, that I've moved, I suppose. That's not so terribly unusual."

"Moved to where? And they'll never see you coming or going, won't that lead to talk?" Erik insisted. 

She shrugged. 

"So let them talk, then."

"Christine," he admonished. "They'll form all kinds of opinions about you - none of them very good - _especially_ the people who know I'm not simply a specter or legend."

She got up from her chair and for a moment he was afraid that he had pushed her too far, that she was leaving because he had upset her, but instead she surprised him by sitting across his lap and putting her arms around him, resting her face in the crook of his neck. 

"I don't care about anyone's opinion but yours," she murmured. "I won't move in if you truly don't wish it, but please don't refuse to let me do so because you merely wish to protect me. If _you_ want me to live with you, then nothing else matters to me, Erik."

He returned her embrace, at a loss for words. He simply sat there for a few moments, letting one hand cradle the back of her head while the other rested on her back and pulled her closer to him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What had he ever done to deserve her? 

"Christine..." he tried one last time. "You have such a good reputation here, and I don't want to see it tarnished on my account."

"If no one else existed, if it were just and you and me," she pressed. "No one else's opinions to interfere, and no one would even know - what would your answer be? Would you still say no?"

He hesitantly kissed her cheek as he considered his answer. 

In all truthfulness he had wanted her to live him for quite some time now - even before the Vicomte had made his appearance, if Erik were being honest with himself. Being around her was the highlight of his day - how could he not want to extend the time spent in her presence? His breath caught in his throat at the very thought of her so near to him always, of her light illuminating the catacombs and the underground lake, of her warmth chasing away the chill of his lonely hours so deep under the earth. 

To have her there in his arms now, so sweetly offering him the very situation he had longed for... If no one else existed, as she had asked, his answer would have been an immediate _yes_. 

But other people _did_ exist. Other people _would_ find out and have opinions. Let them think what they would about him - but he could bear no scorn to be heaped upon his poor Christine, no sidelong glances or rumors to be spread about her. It would break his heart if that were so. 

In the light of such knowledge, that there was only one way to keep those rumors from starting, he knew what he should say. It was, undoubtedly, the right answer - the _only_ answer. She should continue to live in her dormitory until he was able to move into a real house in the sunlight and they were actually married. Anything else would draw suspicion and judgment - how dare he entomb her with him under the ground and make her into a ghost as well? 

The silence only grew as he contemplated her question. She fought the urge to squirm as she waited, keeping her face pressed against his shoulder, unable to meet his eye. A gentle hand ran over her hair, and she felt with mounting dread that he was going to tell her no, that she was being placated before being denied. He was going to say no, and she was going to feel supremely embarrassed and so silly for even asking - how could she ask that of him? To intrude in his home, to expect such liberties from a man she wasn't even married to yet? How shameful of her! She would be lucky if she managed to not burst into tears as she left the Box after he reprimanded her for her wicked forwardness. Already she could feel the tears forming, doubt clouding her mind. 

And yet-

"Live with me, Christine," he whispered. 

Had he not suffered enough in his life? Waited in the shadows long enough? The one thing he wanted just so happened to be the thing his dear Christine was asking of him, why should the cruelness of the world continually keep them from happiness? 

Besides, she was right when she had said nothing needed to change from how it had been the past few days - and when considered like that, it really wouldn't make much difference at all if she continued to spend her nights there. 

She pulled back, her eyes shining. 

"Oh, Erik - do you really mean it?"

"Yes."

"Oh!" she hugged him tighter. "Thank you, Erik!" 

She got up from his lap. He let his hand linger on her arm as stood back from him, regretting the loss of her so close to him. 

"I really don't think it'll turn out as badly as you think it will," she continued. "Oh! I'm so excited!"

He nodded. He knew he should feel badly about his choice, but he could find no way to regret anything that made her smile like that. He stood and began to rifle through the notes on the table. 

"I only ask, my dear, that you let me move all your belongings for you. I can do so much less conspicuously than you could."

"Of course, Erik!" she agreed eagerly. 

So it was settled then, he thought. He would have work to do before she came to live with him permanently - he had already cleaned the entire house before she came to visit, but he wanted to clean it one more time, and he would have to make sure the kitchen was well stocked for two people, and he should get new flowers for her room because the ones there now were beginning to wilt... But there would be plenty of time for this, he was sure. Then, in a few days when all the preparations were complete, he would steal upstairs to her room and help her pack everything up before he began to ferry it away through the walls and down into her new room. Just think, he told himself, in another week's time Christine will finally be living with me in our home-

"I'll meet you in my dormitory tonight before dinner, then, and we can pack up a few things for tonight, and tomorrow we can move the rest!"

"What?" Erik was pulled out of his many plans for the future. "T- Tonight? Christine, what do you mean toni-"

"Well why wait, Erik?" she laughed as she skipped to the door. "I'll see you tonight, love!" 

"Chris _tine_ -!"

But she was already gone out the door. He sat back down in the chair with a dull thud and a groan.


	8. Chapter 8

Erik gathered his notes and slipped away into the shadows. Once inside the walls, he quickly came upon the manager's office where the director was currently bragging about what a success the afternoon had been. Erik hissed out a breath through clenched teeth - he didn't want a confrontation with anyone, he had hoped the office would be empty so he could leave the stack of papers on the desk and wait for it to be found. 

He waited a moment but none of the men seemed to be leaving anytime soon, toasting each other with brandy and congratulating themselves. Overcome with annoyance, Erik began to slide the notes through the air vent, letting them drift down to the floor like enormous snowflakes, one after the other in such a sudden rush that he could hear the men choking on their drinks and sputtering and cursing. At last Erik reached the end of the notes, and he turned and left the howling managers and director to their frightened stupor. Let them work out the papers for themselves, he had more important business to attended to. 

He was anxious as he approached the girl's dormitories. He had been down the hallways before, but never in any of the rooms, although he did know which one was Christine's. A door led to a long hallway filled with other doors, and the end of the hallway was Christine's room. Her door was unlocked, and he found her already inside, a large carpet bag in the middle of the floor just waiting for her to fill it with her belongings. 

He swiftly shut the door behind him. The very last thing he needed was for someone to see him there - there would be absolutely no stopping the rumors if he were spotted lingering in one of the girls rooms. His throat felt dry just thinking about it. The sooner he helped her pack and took her bag into the walls, the better. 

She was busy fussing over some small knickknacks on top of the dresser. 

"What do you need help packing, my dear?" he asked as he began to pull open a drawer, too focused on getting the task over with to realize what exactly he was doing. 

"Erik!" she squealed, hurriedly slamming the drawer shut before he could get a look inside. 

It didn't matter that in her room in the house on the lake there was a dresser drawer that already contained several pairs of bloomers - bloomers that he very likely had folded and placed there himself - her face still turned red at the thought of him going through her drawer of underclothes and unmentionables. 

He took a step back, suddenly aware of what he'd done. 

"Ah, forgive me-" his eyes darted nervously around the room, desperately hoping he wouldn't make another similar blunder while he was there. 

"It's alright," she managed. "Would you get my coat and scarf from the closet?"

He quickly complied. 

As he pulled the requested items out of the tiny closet, he took the opportunity to look around her room. 

It was no wonder she was intent on moving out so quickly, he thought to himself. The room itself was small, half the size of her room in his house. The bed was little more than a thin mattress on a meager frame. There was no decoration to the room expect for some photographs pinned to the wall, and Erik made a mental note to buy her some frames for these. Across the top of her dresser were a variety of small items - a broken locket, a little wooden horse, a tiny box carved with an intricate design, a gilded handheld mirror, a few candles that were mostly burned down, and a dried rose with a ribbon tied around it that Erik recognized. 

"Christine?"

"Hmm?"

"Is that- is that the rose I gave you after your first performance in Faust?"

"Yes," she smiled as she gently touched the stem.

"You kept it?"

"Well, why wouldn't I?"

"I'm sure you receive a great many roses and flowers from many people after your shows. I'm just surprised you kept that one, after all this time."

"Of course I receive a great many roses from a great many people - but I'd never received one from _you_ before."

Erik didn't know how to reply, so he simply turned and looked in her wardrobe again, figuring it would be fine to do so since she had already asked him to retrieve something from inside. 

She had a number of dresses, all of which he had seen her wear before, but he never had an opportunity to see them up close before. It was now that he noticed that many of them had hems that had been let down and stitching that had been repaired. He frowned, wondering how long she had owned these. They simply wouldn't do. No wife of his should have to wear such pitiful dresses! He would buy her all the finery she wanted - no, _deserved_. He could finally put his salary to good use. 

"And you'll come back for the rest tomorrow?" she asked a little wistfully. 

"Of course, my dear."

She nodded, giving the room one last glance before turning to him and smiling widely as she reached her hand out to him. 

"Let's go, then," she said. 

He carried the large bag for her up until they reached the house, at which point she took it and deposited it in her room. 

It had been a tiring day for Christine, and shortly after dinner she retired to bed - but not before thanking Erik for cooking their dinner and making it abundantly clear that he was very welcome to join her to sleep in her room, or he could sleep on the soft couch in the living room if he wished it, but that if she found he was once again sleeping in his coffin it would be a most unacceptable turn of events. 

She took extra long getting ready for bed that evening, even though she nearly nodded off in the bath several times, and she tried her hardest to stay awake even as she snuggled under the blankets. 

Finally Erik knocked quietly on the door which she had left ajar. He looked in the room to see if she was still awake, not quite stepping over the threshold. Upon seeing him in the doorway, she propped herself up on an elbow. 

"Goodnight, Christine," he said fondly. 

"Goodnight, Erik. Are you going to sleep on the couch, then?" she asked, a little sadly. 

He looked away. 

"Erik?"

He cleared his throat. 

"Erik," she stated firmly. "I will be most displeased if I wake up in a few hours and find you aren't on the couch or here with me."

Strictly speaking, he hadn't been intending on sleeping on the couch at all. He had assumed that Christine would already be asleep by the time he came around to check on her, and then he could return to his own room to sleep. The coffin might be quite far from _physically_ comfortable, but it was what he was used to and it was comfortable in that regard. The couch _was_ quite comfortable, and he supposed it would make a fine sleeping place... However... If Christine was offering... And he _was_ already in his pajamas...

He sheepishly entered her room and climbed into bed with her. 

She lay back down, a small smile on her lips as he settled himself once again on the far edge of the bed. 

"Will you finish moving the rest of my belongings down here tomorrow, Erik?" she asked sleepily. 

"If you wish me to, yes."

"Hmm. Thank you."

"Everything from your room, Christine? All of your clothing, too?"

"Mm hmm. Everything."

"It will all be here and ready for you when you're done with rehearsals, my dear."

She sighed happily. 

"I love you, Erik."

He turned his head to look at her in the half dark. She was curled around her pillow, facing away from him and very nearly asleep if she wasn't already. His heart ached at the sight of her, at the amount of emotion he felt towards her and about her, at the things he could never put into mere words but oh, he could try. 

"I love you too, Christine," he whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

For all his previous moral angst and despairing concern over the consequences of Christine living with him, he found he was too happy about the situation to worry very much. 

Christine stayed for breakfast the next morning, and as he watched her sit there at his breakfast table and eat her pancakes, his breath caught in his throat. She was so beautiful, so perfect. And she was his. The mere thought that he would have an eternity of _this_ before him was overwhelming - already the few weeks they had been together had held far more than he thought he'd ever deserve or receive. 

Christine - his _wife_. He could scarcely think of it without his head spinning. To wake up every morning beside her, to eat breakfast with his bride each day, just to be able to share small moments together with her - Erik would never understand what he had ever done to earn such a thing. 

She lingered as long as she could with him after breakfast, but eventually she had to go up above. He knew she was cutting it close to being late for her job, but he still couldn't help wishing that she had longer to spend with him. He wandered his house absently, thoughts too consumed by her to focus on any task or project. 

It was too early still for him to go up and finish bringing the rest of her belongings to her new home, he knew he'd need to wait much longer for the dormitories to be deserted. Perhaps, however, he could help her by unpacking the bag she had brought the evening before. 

He hesitated only a moment outside her room, emboldened by Christine's constant assurances and invitations to enter, yet couldn't entirely erase the little could of doubt that perhaps he shouldn't be in there. 

Her carpet bag was leaning up against the wall, right where she'd left it the night before, too tired that evening to unpack it herself. 

He picked it up and set it on the edge of the bed. She would surely be tired when she came back tonight as well, he reasoned. And surely she would appreciate having _some_ of her things unpacked when she returned. 

He opened it. Clothing was on top, her scarf and other things he didn't recognize. No matter. He would simply reach underneath of the clothing for the books and and other items she had packed. He would leave the clothing for her to deal with herself, as he was sure she'd prefer, but surely there was nothing wrong with him unpacking anything else. 

But in Christine's haste to pack items, she'd tossed things in without very much care, and that was how the corner of a chemise had gotten stuck in between the pages of a book. Erik's hand made contact with the spine of a rather large book, and figuring this was a safe item to unpack for her, he pulled it out. 

Out came the chemise as well, finding its way free of the book and floating down to the floor, to Erik's growing horror. 

He stared down at it as it lay there in a small heap, mocking him. He huffed. Just his luck. 

He certainly couldn't leave it on the floor, that would be unseemly. He would have to pick it up, then. He took a deep breath before quickly stooping down to retrieve it before he could rethink this course of action. He was about to put it back into the bag when it struck him that he also couldn't just shove it in - he'd have to fold it first. 

He spread it out across the bed, his face turning red. He was not an expert on women's underclothing by any means, but he knew enough to know that this particular piece was worn _under_ the corset and _against the skin_. He brushed his hand down the garment, smoothing the wrinkles out of it - purely out of necessity - he only wished for it not to be wrinkled! - and the terrible thought came to him that perhaps touching Christine's chemise was practically like touching Christine. After all, _it_ had been pressed so intimately against all those unmentionable places below her neck and above her ankles, touching her bare skin, and here he was touching _it_ , so really that was the only logical conclusion, wasn't it? 

He folded it hastily, trying to touch it as little as possible, before putting it back in the bag, but it was too late. Even in his most shameful moments of touching her while they both slept, he had never touched her skin besides her face or her hands, yet here he was, running his hand over that thin fabric like some sort of deviant libertine. 

Regret bubbled up in his chest. He quickly placed the book back in the bag as well. It had been a mistake, trying to help her unpack. He truly hadn't meant anything by the actions, only to fold the pice of clothing he had accidentally dropped, but once the thought had appeared he simply couldn't get it out of his mind. It didn't feel the same, somehow, as folding the clothing he had placed into her dresser before she had first seen her new room - there was everything a proper lady needed in those drawers, and of course it had felt awkward to take those items out of the box they had been sent to him in so he could place them in her dresser, but at that point they were only pieces of fabric that had never been worn by anyone. This chemise was different, it wasn't _just_ a chemise - it was _Christine's_ chemise, and he could feel it deep down in his soul that he should _not_ be touching _Christine's chemise_ regardless of whether she was in it or not. He placed the bag back where Christine had left it, making his retreat from the room. 

Guilt wracked him for the rest of the day. Should he tell her what had happened? Should he just pretend it hadn't happened? He thought with dread on how she had slammed her drawer shut, hiding those very pieces of clothing from his prying eyes and wanton fingers. He recalled her saying that he should take _everything_ from her dormitory room to bring down here, and realized that she had probably put all of the things she didn't wish him to see in her carpet bag, leaving the rest of the room clear for him to browse. 

He attempted to push the thoughts from his mind as he snuck above to pack the rest of her things, but once he was underground again the thoughts came back at full force. He placed the rest of the bags on her floor next to her carpet bag, leaving them all for her to unpack herself - he had certainly learned his lesson in that regard. 

He paced the floor of his own bedroom and nearly shed a tear or two over his own wickedness - but then another thought crept in and added to the general din in his mind. _Was_ it truly wicked? She was practically his wife, after all. He had held her numerous time before, and though he has always tried to keep those embraces as respectful as he could, his hands _had_ at times strayed to her waist. Of course she had always had on layers of clothing at the time, but really - was touching her like that so much different than touching a garment that she wasn't even wearing, even if it happened to be her chemise? Perhaps it might have been wicked of him if they had still been only teacher and student, but they were so much more than that now, and it had been an _accident_ , not a purposely planned course of action. Yes, it would have been wicked if he had secretly searched out his student's chemise so he could touch it, but that was so far from what had happened! She was his fiancée, and he had only meant to help her, to ease her worries and stress by assisting her in unpacking. 

He began to relax just enough to begin cooking dinner for both of them, justifying it all to himself in his mind. It wasn't some great tragedy as he had first imagined, surely not. It was completely understandable, certainly. Christine wouldn't be angry with him, no, that was just silly. Everything was fine! He was so silly about things sometimes. 

Everything was perfectly- 

Christine entered the little house, smiling brightly at him when he stuck his head out the kitchen door to see what that noise was. 

He cringed. 

Everything was awful. And it was awful because _he_ had made it so with his horrible actions. 

He quickly placed her food on a plate and set it on the table for her before slinking out of the room to sulk, leaving before she even entered the room. 

"Erik!" she called out, looking at the single place setting on the table. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Silence was the only reply, so she sought him out, eventually finding him in his room, apparently not doing much else other than standing in a corner and looking at his feet. 

"Will you not eat with me, Erik?" she asked sweetly as she leaned on the doorframe. 

"Erik isn't hungry tonight," he replied swiftly. 

She frowned. 

"Have you eaten at all since breakfast?" 

He shook his head. In his self loathing he had completely forgotten, but even still he didn't have much of an appetite. 

She slowly made her way over to him, as though approaching a frightened animal. 

"But you've worked so hard today, love, carrying all my things downstairs for me. It was so kind of you to do so, and I so appreciate it. You should eat something after all that. Please?"

She carefully reached her hand out and grabbed his, giving it a squeeze. She wasn't certain what exactly had gotten him in such a mood, but she hoped to draw him out of it. He still refused to meet her eye, but looked at the wall behind her instead, frowning just a little. 

"I- I suppose," he conceded. 

She continued to hold his hand as she led him to the kitchen, only releasing it once they had sat down again. 

He sat sullenly across from her, eyes fixed firmly on his plate as he pushed his food around and took small bites. 

She sighed a little wistfully. Her dear, poor Erik. She wished that she understood his mind better, that she better knew how to help him deal with the strange moods that would descend on him so suddenly. She loved him so, and her heart felt that it might burst because of it. He was so kind, so good to her, and she looked forward to a lifetime of being good to him in return. She fiddled with the ring on her finger a little. 

"You are very quiet tonight, Erik. You look like you have a lot on your mind."

He glanced up at her woefully before dropping his gaze back to his plate, the most he'd looked at her since she'd arrived. But still he was silent. 

"Sometimes when I have a lot on my mind, I find it helps to talk about it," she offered. "Would you like to talk about it?"

He focused intently on cutting his food into very small pieces with his fork, but he realized he'd have to say something sooner or later. His poor, sweet angel, who cared about him so very much. Best to have out with it, then, and let her know just what kind of a sick monster she was about to marry. It wouldn't do to lie to her or hide things. 

"Christine," he said pathetically as he eyes darted around the room in an attempt to find something to focus on besides her. "I'm afraid there's something I must... confess. I- I began to unpack your carpet bag early. I'm so sorry."

She paused, trying to understand what exactly he was sorry for. Her face colored just a little at the thought of what all was in the carpet bag. She looked down at her own plate, poking at the food with the fork. 

"Oh?" was all she could muster. 

He nodded miserably. 

"I began to unpack it, but your- your _article of clothing_ fell out and- oh, you must believe me when I say it was an accident! I didn't mean to!"

A vague panic began to rise in her. Good heavens, what had he done to cause such a fit? 

"What, ah, what did you do?"

He gave her a pained look. 

"Well, it fell on the floor, Christine. I had to pick it up. And I- I _folded_ it," he fidgeted, ashamed, and was very quiet when he continued. "And while I was folding it, I... The thought occurred to me, that is... That you... Well, the thought just appeared... Of you... _Wearing it_... And _only_ it..."

He took a deep breath. 

"And I am so sorry," he shakily added. 

Christine thought on this for a moment. It was rather embarrassing for him to have seen her chemise, of course, but she didn't think it warranted so many apologies. It was embarrassing, too, that he had admitted to _thinking_ of her wearing it, but she also found it rather flattering - after all, shouldn't she want her husband to _think_ of her? Wasn't it normal for husbands to think those things about their wives? Surely he didn't need to apologize for that, even if they weren't exactly husband and wife just yet. 

The corners of her lips tugged upwards and she squirmed a little, her face growing redder. 

"It's alright, Erik," she assured him, trying to gather courage for what she'd say next. "You don't have to feel so badly about, I don't think. You know..."

She giggled nervously, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger before continuing. 

"You know, sometimes I... I, ah, picture you... er, _similarly_."

Her entire body felt very warm, suddenly so shy after admitting such a thing, but surely it would help him to feel more at ease to know that he wasn't the only one, to let him know that it was okay. She dared a glance up at him. 

His brow knit in confusion as he stared at her. 

"You... picture me wearing a chemise?" he asked faintly. 

She covered her face with her hands and groaned loudly. 

"That's not what I meant at all," she finally sighed from behind her hands. 

She didn't think her face would ever return to its normal color. She _knew_ that it wouldn't return to its normal color if he asked her for further clarification, if he made her say out loud and in detail that she had occasionally dared to imagine him in naught but his undergarments. She knew it was terrible of her to do so, that it wasn't what good girls should be thinking of, but she simply couldn't help herself at times. 

She took a single hand away from her face and waved it, as though to shoo the conversation away. 

"Please," she said desperately. "Forget I even said anything."

He looked back to his plate, the confusion still etched across his face. They ate in silence a for a few minutes, until Erik glanced up at her once more. He didn't understand, not truly, but she had forgiven him and had bravely put forth her own personal _thoughts_ , and if that's what his Christine wanted, well - that's what he would give her, and it didn't matter it if made sense to him or not. 

"I-" he swallowed hard. "After we are married I will wear a chemise for you if you wish it, Christine," he offered meekly. 

Christine dropped her fork with a stunned clatter. The dining room quickly felt far too hot and she needed to leave _that instant_ \- actually, preferably the instant before he had uttered those words, but it was regretfully too late for that. Her chair made an awful scraping noise against the tile floor, and the second it was back far enough she bolted from it, her hands flying up to her face again as she squeaked an apology and ran from the room. 

He prudently chose not to follow her, giving her - and himself - some space and time to recover from such a strange and emotionally taxing conversation. By the time he finished cleaning the kitchen and the dishes and made his way to her room, they had both had a chance to gather their wits about them. 

He stood hesitantly in the doorway, watching as she went about unpacking her various things. She glanced over him, smiling, and motioned for him to come in. 

"Is there anything I can help you with, my dear?" he cautiously eyed the treacherous carpet bag in the corner. 

"Not at the moment. Thank you, though. I do appreciate it."

Both of them were immensely thankful that neither one brought up the topic of chemises again - Erik was eternally grateful for Christine's kind forgiveness in all his myriad sins, and Christine was touched at his utter devotion to her that he would offer such a bizarre thing to her so readily even if he didn't fully understand it. 

They spent the rest of the evening in her room, her unpacking things and showing them to him, telling him the stories behind each one - sometimes precious stories of her childhood, sometimes more recent stories of her life at the Conservatoire. She had a number of books which he offered to place in his - their - library if she wished, and she agreed to do so with the exception of a few volumes of fairy stories that she wanted to keep near her in her room. 

"Papa bought these for me on my birthday, when I turned seven," she explained, holding the beautifully illustrated books fondly. "He'd read them to me every night for ages after that, they're my very favorite stories in the world."

She placed them on her nightstand and a sudden idea occurred to her. 

"Erik," she asked, a little shyly. "Would you read them to me sometimes, maybe?"

"I will read them to you as often as you would like," he replied swiftly. 

"Tonight?" she asked hopefully. 

"Of course, Christine."

True to his word, after she was too tired to finish unpacking and they had both prepared for bed, he picked up one of the volumes and asked which story she'd like to hear. 

"Any of them, Erik," she told him as she pulled the blanket up around her. 

He settled in on the opposite side of the bed, leaned against the padded headboard, opened the book up and began to read. 

Christine had heard these stories a hundred times before, first read to her by her papa and then eventually when she'd read them by herself, but hearing them now in Erik's voice was both like hearing from an old friend and hearing something completely new at the same time. She rested her head on her pillow and stared up at him as he told her favorite story in that rich voice of his, the flame from the oil lamp casting shadows and making little patterns of light dance on the walls. 

The rest of the world seemed to melt away until it was just the two of there in that room with that story. It was a tale of a young woman who was not allowed to see the face or true form of the man she was to marry, yet her curiosity got the better of her one night as they lay in their bed together and she dared to light a candle and look upon his face - with disastrous consequences. Erik cast a sidelong glance at Christine as he read, recalling that she had said these stories were her favorites. The young woman in the story had to go through a number of trials and long journeys before she was back in the arms of her love again. 

Erik felt honored that Christine wanted him to be a part of something that obviously meant so much to her, blessed that she wanted to share this with him. He mused, not for the first time that day, and most certainly not for the last, on how he had ever become so lucky as to have someone like her. 

As he continued to read to her in the safety and warmth of their bed, he found that not only did the rest of the world fade into the background, but so did his worries. There was no longer any concern about the past or their future, no worries over whether or not they should be sharing a bed, no fears for Christine's reputation or what would happen if they couldn't ever live above, no stresses about the wedding or outings, no dreadful thoughts of his own wickedness - there was only him and Christine and little oil lamp and the leather bound book of fairy stories and a very soft, very large, very comfortable bed, and as he finished the story and turned the lamp low, giving Christine a goodnight kiss on the forehead, it seemed to be all he could ever need for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "East of the Sun and West of the Moon" is one of my favorite fairy tales tbh


	10. Chapter 10

Life began to fall into a welcome - and truly quite comfortable - routine. 

They spent their days very nearly the same as before, Christine busy with shows and rehearsals and Erik watching those shows and rehearsals and writing notes, and when wasn't writing notes he occupied his time with composing music. 

The only major differences now were that they tried to go on as many outings as they could together, and the fact that Christine went to the house on the underground lake when she was done upstairs for the day. They continued in their shared sleeping arrangement, and although somehow Erik managed to mostly stay on his own side of the bed, there were still occasional mornings he would awaken decidedly _not_ on his side of the bed, his arms around Christine and his legs mortifyingly tangled with her own, but Christine never minded such mornings and he tried to take them in stride as best he could with minimal apologies and breakdowns. Then there were, of course, the times when Christine would purposely snuggle close to him as he held her, or else put her arms around him and draw him close to her, one of the two almost always occurring after any particularly trying days of venturing above, and he was always grateful to her for that. 

Venturing out, Christine learned, was not a linear process. They could spend an entire fortnight working up to walking in the market with other people, and just like that the very next day he might be back at square one, too nervous to go past the edge of the building. But she was patient and determined, and she never ceased to encourage him no matter what. 

It would have been quite easy for Erik slip into despair over the seeming lack of progress in getting adjusted to the outside world if not for Christine. Of course, he wouldn’t have been trying to adjust to dealing with the outside world if not Christine, either. He would gladly do anything for her, though it frustrated him endlessly that he struggled with it so. But having her there helped, having her by his side out in the sunlight made the world spin a little less, seeing her smile at him helped him to breathe a little a deeper, and the grounding thought that this was all for _her_ made him affectionately squeeze her hand a little tighter as they walked together. Progress was never as fast as he would have wished, and any setbacks felt devastating to him - but the bitter disappointment of such days was offset by Christine’s gentle insistence that setbacks were never permanent, and any lingering sadness was soothed as he’d bury his face in her neck and hold her tightly to him, running a hand through her hair as she’d hum to him and trace her finger in circles on his back until he forgot all about the day’s disastrous outing. 

Another difference in their life now was that Christine had her lessons in their home instead of up above. She worried, at first, that perhaps it would be different now that she lived with him, that something would have changed - that perhaps her lessons would become more relaxed or even that he would be more strict with her throughout the day when they weren’t in a lesson, but she had quickly found this was not to be the case. He kept a close eye on the clock when her lessons were to be held, and when they started it was as though a switch were flipped somewhere in him - Erik the Tutor took over as though Erik the Fiancé didn’t exist at all. It was easy, then, for Christine to fall into the role of Student right alongside him. Her lessons were every bit as strict and intense as they had been before, and once the lessons were over that same switch flipped off and he was merely her adoring future husband once more. 

There was, however, a slight problem that Christine the Student faced that Christine the Future Bride had graciously overlooked because she had forgotten - and that problem was Erik. Namely - he could be _annoying_ during their lessons. It didn’t happen all of the time, but on occasions he somehow managed to find the one thing to say that would burrow into her mind and gnaw away at her until she felt she might scream. It certainly wasn’t anything he did on purpose, and since she had never brought it up to him he likely didn’t even know. But the fact remained that every so often he’d say some offhand comment that would leave her quite upset. 

So it happened one day during a lesson in which she couldn’t manage to memorize a particular part of an aria. She had started it three different times, and each time she’d get to just past the halfway point and suddenly forget the next verse. It irked her to no end, and it surprised Erik as well. 

He turned from the piano to face her. 

“Really, Christine, I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he frowned. “You’re more than capable of singing this, and you know the song entirely.”

She bit her lip in annoyance. He was right, naturally. But she didn’t have any more idea what was wrong than he did. 

He turned away from her again and gave a small chuckle before he spoke a comment that he put terribly little thought into. 

“Why, even Carlotta could pick this aria up quicker.”

Christine hissed a breath through her teeth, narrowing her eyes at his back. The nerve of that man! The audacity! 

He began playing once more, and Christine began from the start of the aria, only to falter once again at very nearly the same spot. Surely it wasn’t her fault this time, though - all she could hear in her head was _Carlotta could pick it up quicker, Carlotta, Carlotta, she could do it better, Carlotta could pick it up quicker, Carlotta is better than you my dear_ , and that left precious little room to be thinking of much much else. She twisted her hands in her skirt. Was he seriously comparing her to Carlotta? 

Erik paused. 

“I think we’re done for the day, my dear. We’ll try again tomorrow. Do try to look over the words again tonight, however.”

She gave a stiff nod and left the room quickly. 

Erik was too lost in his thoughts of how he could help her memorize the words and what she’d need to work on tomorrow to notice how she practically stormed off. 

She went in her bedroom and closed the door, not so lost to her anger that she slammed door - no, that would only alert Erik and the absolute last thing she wanted right now was to have look at or speak to _him_. She paced the floor, her hands clenched tightly into fists. _Carlotta!_ How dare he? 

When she had finally stopped fuming and was only merely sulking, she quietly opened the door and made her way to the sitting room. The problem, she realized, was that after he usually said some unthoughtful comment that set her off, she would throw herself into some other task to take her mind off of it - she would go and gossip with Meg or go out to a cafe and treat herself to a pastry - but now that going anywhere involved numerous flights of stairs and other nuisances, she found the thought of taking the effort to flee the little house in a fit of annoyance to be far too tiresome. The alternative, however, was that everything in the house reminded her of Erik. She shot a peeved look at the closed door of the room with the piano where she could still hear him playing. She grabbed a book off a shelf and settled down into the couch by the fire, hoping that getting lost in a story would sooth her temper. 

Erik stood up from the piano bench and stretched before taking out his pocket watch. It had been over three hours since Christine’s lesson had ended, over three hours that he had playing and writing new pieces. It hadn’t been her best lesson, but she had still done so well, and was often the case when he heard her sing he was simply bursting with new ideas and new melodies that itched to be put down on paper. How lucky he was, he mused, that their living arrangement could now make it possible to go straight from teaching her to composing. He wandered out from the room, needing a glass of water. 

To get to the kitchen he had to first pass the sitting room, which he glanced into before pausing. Why, there she was right there, his dear little songbird, his sweet angelic muse. She was so precious, he thought to himself, sitting there by the fire, her brow furrowed in concentration over her book. His glass of water now forgotten, he entered the room slowly and quietly, not wanting to disturb her. 

Christine glared down at the pages, sensing Erik’s presence in the doorway, and she frowned harder. What did _he_ want? Was he here to say that Carlotta could read faster, too? Apparently the story had not worked as well as she’d hoped - she still felt quite cross over what had happened. 

He approached her from behind, hovering his hands near her shoulders and leaning down to kiss her gently on the cheek, but when Christine realized his intentions she jerked away from him, evading his grasp and his lips. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather kiss Carlotta instead?” she said hotly as she stood and crossed her arms. 

Erik had frozen where he stood, too shocked that Christine had pulled away to do anything else. Christine had _never_ pulled away from him before, and his mind was so consumed with this fact that it took him a moment to process what she had said. 

“ _What_?! Why the devil would I want to do that?” he sputtered, his hands coming to rest on his chest and fidgeting with his cravat. Just the _thought_ of being so near to that awful woman made him nervous. 

Christine knew how absolutely silly it would be to burst into tears over it, yet still she felt the sting in her eyes and she sniffed. 

“I don’t know,” she began to regret simply saying the first thing that had come to mind. “Maybe you would, that’s all.”

His brow furrowed as a slight wave of nausea hit him. 

“ _No one_ wants to kiss Carlotta!”

She let her arms drop to her sides, just a little disappointed at how she had let their conversation get so off track. 

“Well, Piangi does,” was all she could say, her tone sullen. 

“ _Christine_ ,” he was aghast. “Don’t compare me to Piangi! That’s terrible!”

She blinked hard, the tears threatening to spill over, and her voice got progressively higher as she spoke. 

“Well that’s how I feel when you compare me to Carlotta! I hate it when you do that! I’m trying my best, Erik, I can’t help if I- I-“

She broke off, unable to continue. A small, distant part of her was mortified at her behavior. 

Erik stared at her, dumbfounded. What on earth was she even talking about? Compare her to-

Suddenly it dawned on him. 

“Christine, are you talking about what I said in your lesson?”

She nodded, frowning. 

He pulled out his pocket watch once more and looked at it before showing it to her. 

“But Christine, that was hours ago!”

She wiped her tears away angrily. 

“I don’t care how long ago it was, I still didn’t like it.”

Erik was inclined to think this was all some practical joke. Was she really still upset _hours_ later? But her crying looked terribly real, and strange though it seemed to him, he figured she must be telling the truth. 

“Oh, my poor dear,” he sighed. “Your Erik was terribly thoughtless to ever compare you to that woman. Why, Carlotta could never come close to my little songbird, surely you know that, Christine...”

She nodded moodily. 

“But it’s not about _knowing_ , Erik, it’s about _feeling_.”

Erik faltered. Women could be so _strange_ , he thought to himself. 

“I promise to never compare you to anyone again, Christine,” he said solemnly. “I swear it.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, wiping away the rest of her tears. 

He tapped the tips of his fingers together, considering. 

“Will- will Christine pull away again, if Erik tries to kiss her?” he asked meekly, looking down at the floor. 

“No,” she looked away as well, fisting her hands in the fabric of her skirts. 

His face lit up, and he tentatively drew closer to her, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. He pulled back, smiling, but she just stared blankly at him. He felt strangely awkward and sort of wished he hadn’t kissed her after all. He cleared his throat. 

“Well, then,” he started, but didn’t know what to say after that, so he merely turned and walked stiffly out of the room. 

Christine watched him go, and huffed and pouted just a little longer, but she felt slightly guilty about the whole ordeal. He was annoying, but he didn’t mean to be. 

She found him in the kitchen a little later, preparing their meal for that evening. He glanced at her a little uncertainly, but she went right up to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, leaning her head on his chest. He stopped what he was doing to return her embrace. No more words were exchanged in regards to what had happened earlier, but they both knew that all was forgiven. 

Neither one even thought of the occurrence again until during one of her lessons a little over a week afterward. She had been trying to hit a particularly high note, but instead of it coming out like a high pitched ring from a bell, it sounded terribly like a squeal. 

Erik winced. 

“Goodness, Christine - you sounded just like-“ he froze, a look of panic overtaking him. 

“Just like who or what, Erik?” she asked evenly, narrowing her eyes. 

He drummed his fingers on his knees, his mind frantically racing. 

“Just like a tired but otherwise talented opera singer,” he quickly supplied. “One who was worked so very hard yet still pushes herself to be the best she can be, like a very beautiful young woman who simply needs to take a nice rest and drink a cup of warm tea so that her voice will be able to hit all of the notes once more. Just like a Christine.”

She blushed prettily and Erik heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Will my Maestro join me in having that cup of tea?”

“Of course, Christine,” he smiled.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the taxing effort of Erik dealing with his anxieties, and the occasional annoyances that came with living with someone, Christine thought life was going splendidly. She loved living with him, loved taking turns cooking meals, seeing the pleased and surprised look on his face when he’d realize that she had swept or dusted a room for him, loved just having there with her even if they weren’t even in the same room. She loved how thoughtful he was towards her, loved how he trusted her so much that he would share his life and his home with her. Life with him just seemed so _right_ that she could scarcely imagine how life before him had even existed. 

Her future husband was an odd man, with many quirks, but she loved nearly everything about him - except for the things that so clearly came from some past trauma. 

It hurt to see him struggle with going outside, or his uncertainty with whether or not she’d leave him for good one day. The still lingering effects of his childhood manifested themselves in sometimes unexpected ways, like on that laundry day that had been going so well until it hadn’t. 

They had been laughing and joking as they were taking down various articles from the clothesline in what would generously be considered the ‘backyard’ - the space of mossy bricks and carved stones behind their house. Towels and sheets and pillow shams had all been hanging and drying for some time, and were finally ready to be taken down and folded. Some were much easier to fold than others, but some were quite long and difficult. She hadn’t thought anything of it when she took down the big sheet, and, in an effort to dispel the wrinkles and make it easier to fold, she grabbed ahold of one end and sent a violent shake through it, making the fabric snap through the air. 

The resulting sound, the cracking noise not unlike that of a whip, was not one she would have even given a second thought to, one she barely would have registered as anything at all, but clearly that was not the case for Erik. Her smile disappeared as she heard his sharp intake of breath. He had suddenly dropped the stack of towels he was holding that he had just folded, taking a quick step back from her, his eyes wide and afraid. 

She had apologized profusely, and he had tried to play it off as simple surprise and nothing more, but she could tell from the continued tremble of his hands that that wasn’t the case. She didn’t press him for details, but from what had happened and what he had made vague mentions of on previous occasions, she could piece together enough to know that something in his past had happened involving a whip, and the thought of that made her want to cry. 

She had tried her best to help him make progress past many of his thoughts and opinions that were hurtful to himself, and sometimes she was quite successful. He was a little less reluctant to leave his mask off when they were at home, he no longer hesitated to remove it at night, and he’d actually look at her straight on now when it was removed, not even worrying about placing a hand over his deformity. 

She did wonder, in some cases, if she had actually made progress or not. One thought in particular ate away at her, the thought that he was only sleeping in a bed because she was there to know if he had or not. If she were to suddenly move back upstairs that very day, would he be back in his coffin that night? Did he actually think he was worthy of a bed, actually want to sleep in one instead of his old coffin, or was he simply doing it as a favor to her? 

Was she actually helping him when she encouraged him to push his limits and go outside, or was she simply adding stress to his already difficult life? Some days she worried that it was so, that she really wasn’t helping him at all - maybe she was even hurting him. Did it distress him to sleep in a bed, make him feel guilty? Was making him sleep in one really best way to help him deal with that? 

She surprised him by curling up to him one night after a long day of those kinds of thoughts running through her mind. She didn’t often cuddle with him unless she had a reason, as she always tried to be respectful of his boundaries. Most of the times she’d do so were after days that had been rough for him, but he knew his day had been fine, so that surely couldn’t be the reason. That night it wasn’t for him, however - he wasn’t the only one who had trying days, though he certainly had more of them. 

She was feeling a little melancholy that night, sad for numerous small reasons that all seemed to add up into some big, hazy sadness that had settled on her like a cloud. She was grateful that Erik seemed to understand without her having to explain, that he pulled her close to him without hesitation. 

She sighed in his embrace, grateful also that he seemed just as content with silence that night as she was. 

“Erik,” she finally murmured after a long while, her words muffled from how her face rested on his shoulder. “Do you like being here? In a bed?”

“I like being anywhere you are, Christine,” he said softly, his hand stroking her hair. 

“No, I mean, if I wasn’t here, would you still be sleeping in a bed?”

His hand stilled, and he didn’t seem to have even heard her question past the first part. 

“Christine,” he sounded mournful as he whispered. “Christine, why wouldn’t you be here? What do you mean, my dear?”

“Oh, Erik... Never mind, love. It’s- it’s not important.”

He was still a while longer, and Christine realized he was still troubled by what she had said. 

“It’s alright, Erik. I’m not going anywhere. I want to stay here with you forever, you know.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and began stroking her hair again. 

When she awoke in the morning her mood was much improved, though the thoughts from the previous night still lingered in the back of her mind. Even so, she managed some cheerfulness during breakfast that was not artificial. 

Erik was pleased to see his fiancée smiling that morning. Her pensive mood the last evening had unsettled him - she was usually so cheerful and bright, it was unlike her to be so introspective and quiet. It seemed, however, that there was no lasting damage, and that it had only been a fleeting mood. Still, that morning he tried his best to lighten the atmosphere for her, and to his relief it had helped. 

Christine loved that Erik could tell a joke with a straight face. She oftentimes didn’t even realize he was telling a joke until he reached the end of whatever story or anecdote he was telling, and even then he would still appear to be gravely serious. 

He put that skill to good use over breakfast, making her nearly choke on her omelette on two separate occasions. He secretly reprimanded himself for not planning the timing of the punchlines better - he did not want her to choke! - but he was relieved to hear her sweet laugh ringing out once more. 

He accompanied her on the journey upstairs, both a little quiet as they went - he because he still worried over whatever was going on in her mind, and she because the trip through the dark and dank tunnels always seemed to call for silence, as though to laugh or chatter was disrespectful to the opera house somehow. 

Just before she was about to step out into her dressing room, he grabbed her hand and stopped her, pulling her back. She looked up at him, questioning. He cupped a hand to the side of her face, hesitating. There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to ask, but discussing feelings had never come easily to him. She was always so strong for him, so brave, and he wanted to help her with whatever she was going through at the moment, but he didn’t know how. 

“Does Christine know how much her Erik loves her?” he asked tenderly. 

She placed her hand over his and smiled. 

“Of course I do, Erik. I love you too, you know.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. 

“I will see you after work, Christine.”

They each passed the day only half focused on their respective tasks - singing and composing - each one thinking of the other. Erik was counting the hours, the seconds, until he saw her again. Christine was eagerly looking forward to the end of practice, and finally relief washed through her as the company was gathered on stage to all be told of whatever announcements there were - always the last part of rehearsal before they were all allowed to leave. 

That news, however, left Christine dragging her feet as she made her way back downstairs that evening. 

“My Christine,” Erik greeted her with a hug as she entered the house, falling into his arms. 

“I have awful news, Erik,” she began, and he tensed. 

Was something truly wrong after all? Was she ill? Did she have to move away for some unfathomable reason? 

“You know how sometimes the performers are offered chances to sing at those parties thrown by the wealthy families?”

He nodded. It wasn’t often, but the upper class did on occasion seek to hire a few singers from the opera house for an evening - a novel entertainment for a fancy party, and it typically paid well. 

“Well, I was requested to perform at one,” she sighed. 

“Christine...” he wasn’t certain how to feel. “That could be quite good for your career, my dear.”

“But it’s _tomorrow_ ,” she protested. “And it’s not even in Paris, either. I would be gone for nearly an entire day - leaving just after noon and not coming back until late next morning.”

“You do not have to do it if you do not wish to, Christine. It _would_ be good for your career, but I must admit, I am hesitant to be without you that long... I leave it entirely up to you.”

Christine sighed again. It did sound like a good thing to do - only the more popular singers usually got hired for such parties, so to be asked was quite an honor. But she was reluctant to go for a number of reasons, and a major one was leaving Erik behind. 

What would he do without her? Of course he was a grown man and fully capable of existing on his own - but she had the terrible feeling that he’d likely spend that night in his coffin once again. Could she truly perform her best while she was worried about him the whole night? 

And it wasn’t as if he could go with her - there was no way he’d make it that far out of Paris, let alone out of the opera house. But he had a point - it _would_ be good for her career. Of course neither one wanted to leave the other for that long, but... She did have her career to think about. 

She looked up at him, anxious. 

“Would you be okay here by yourself, Erik? You’ll be fine for the evening and morning all on your own?”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“ _Fine_ and okay are two different things, you know. I will be okay, but I suspect I will not be _fine_ \- that implies a certain level of excellence above being just _okay_ that I am afraid simply isn’t possible without you there. However, despite my own sad loss that this event will bring,” he here heaved a theatrical, weary sigh that made her giggle. “I do approve and know you will sing beautifully at the party.”

“I’ll go, then,” she nodded. 

Erik played the violin for her after dinner, but insisted that they go to bed earlier than usual, as he wanted her to be rested for her performance the next day. 

The following morning he asked to go over the pieces she’d sing that night, and then he took her upstairs and sent her off from the secret entrance on the Rue Scribe side. 

She hugged him tightly before she left, promising to do her best at the party and to make him proud. 

He watched her cab from the shadows until it disappeared in the distance and then made his way back downstairs. Their home seemed so empty without her - she had been absent at times before, of course she had, with rehearsals and shows and her life up above - but this was the first night that she wouldn’t be there since she had moved in. 

The cab made a few more stops to pick up the two other singers who would be joining her, and she soon found that her worries about Erik faded to the back of her mind as they all talked and gossiped about the family that was throwing the party. 

Once at the grand house, there was even more to keep her mind occupied. She managed to find a quiet corner where some of the musicians were standing and introduced herself, quite surprised to find that one of them already knew who she was. 

As the party drew closer she changed into her fine dress that she had brought with her, then pinned her hair up in a fashionable style. As she entered the party she felt a little wistful - if only Erik could have accompanied her here. She wondered if, even if he did in time become comfortable among crowds, there would ever come a day when he would _enjoy_ places like parties with all the noise and lights and people. She wondered what he was doing right at that moment - maybe reading a book, or drinking some tea, or playing music to the empty house. 

The night passed in a blur of music and singing, and soon she was finished with her own part in the little show. Her songs completed, she was now free to enjoy the rest of the party, try some food, and listen to the rest of the singers before heading to the hotel room that had been booked for her. Except - except she didn’t feel much like doing any of those things. She had been around the crowd of people for hours at that point, and while she liked parties, she found she was tired and merely wished to rest. The rush of adrenaline while singing had left her, and all she wanted to do was unpin her hair and change into comfortable clothing. She could retire to her hotel room early, but... 

But she didn’t want to go a hotel room. It was late in the evening, but not terribly late, not yet. She knew it would be much later than most cab drivers would be willing stay out, though, by the time she got back to Paris. 

Still- 

She thanked her hosts for the opportunity and received her payment, then bid her farewells all around and stepped outside. A number of cab drivers lingered outside, tending to their horses. It had been assumed that most, if not all, of the drivers would be unwilling to travel that far that late at night, but she had to try. She asked five before she finally found one who would consider the long trip. 

“I’ll take you to Paris, but it’ll cost double my normal rate.”

“Of course, Monsieur.”

The driver coughed. 

“Did, ah, did I say double? I meant triple.”

Christine bit her lip. She knew that she should save her money, but Erik did make more than enough to cover expenses for the both of them, and she had made quite a bit at the party... It was an easy decision because it was worth it to her. 

She quickly handed him the money she had made that evening, and he opened the cab door for her. 

“You’re quite set on getting to Paris as soon as you can, it seems,” the driver was surprised, but pleased with the fee. 

“Yes, I just want to get back to my-“ she hesitated and blushed a little. “My husband.”

They set off for Paris at a quick pace, and she was glad to be off, but her melancholy returned to her during the trip back. 

Erik was probably sleeping by now. She just knew that she’d find him back in his terrible coffin. 

_Does Christine know how much her Erik loves her?_

Enough to put himself in uncomfortable situations? Enough to do things that he’d rather not, simply because she wished it? She was certain of it. 

She felt the sting of tears building up in her eyes, and she sniffled a little. 

She resolved that she wouldn’t wake him when she found him there, instead letting him rest. They would have to have an important discussion in the morning about it all. Perhaps it really would be better for him if they no longer continued to share a bed. 

They arrived in front of the opera house far past midnight, and she thanked the driver. 

She was torn between wanting to run down the tunnels that led to her home and wanting to put off the moment of seeing where he was sleeping. 

She unlocked the door of the little house with the greatest of care, making certain to be as quiet as she could. 

She made her way to her bedroom and peeked in the doorway. The bed was empty. Her heart sank and she sighed sadly, turning to go look in his room. 

But on her way there, she noticed the fireplace going in the living room. She went inside, meaning to only make sure that it wasn’t in danger of catching anything else on fire, but was surprised to see Erik there on the couch, fast asleep. 

Had he fallen asleep while reading or working on something? Sometimes she came upon him so, tired from several days without sleep at all, sitting in a chair or at a desk or even at his organ, having fallen suddenly asleep in the middle of something. 

But no, she realized as she crept closer that he taken off both his mask and wig and placed them carefully on the small table by the couch. That was the surest sign that he had intended to sleep there, otherwise he would still be wearing them both. 

He was in his pajamas and had a blanket wrapped around him. Christine couldn’t help but smile at the image of how peaceful he looked there, his face half buried in the pillow, one arm hanging down over the edge of the cushion. 

He somehow heard her quiet steps, and he blinked a few times as she approached him. 

“Christine? You’re back so early, or is it morning already?” 

“No,” she said. “It’s not yet morning, love. I came home early, I missed you.”

Erik’s heart had never felt so full as it did in that moment. His wonderful Christine, looking like an angel in her beautiful dress illuminated by the fire’s light, smiling so kindly at him as she stooped down and caressed a silk-gloved hand over his cheek, saying that she missed him and calling this place her _home_ \- it was almost too much for him. 

“Is this really where you were going to sleep all night, Erik?”

He gave a little shrug. 

“The bed felt too empty without you,” he said simply. “I couldn’t fall asleep there, so I came out here.”

She felt the same prickle at the corner of her eyes that she did in the cab, but now for the entirely opposite reason. She finally had her answer about whether or not she was helping him. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. 

“Christine,” his voice was still tinged with sleepiness, but he was concerned. “Are you crying, dear? What’s wrong?“

“Nothing’s wrong, Erik,” she smiled at him. “I’m just so happy to be back.”

His light hair was mussed from how he had slept, and she brushed it back from his face before placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.


End file.
